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SELECTED AND EDITED BY 

JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER, M. D. 

ILLUSTRATED FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS. 

A XEW EDITION, REVISED ASD ENLARGED. 








NEW YORK: 
CHARLES SCRIBNER AND COMPAQ 






>I DCCC LXVII. 






Entered, according to Act cf Congress, in the year 1866, by 

CHARLES SCRIBNER, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern 

District of New York. 



RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY 

H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 



BENEDICTION. 

Lt Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, 
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares ! 
The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs 
Of truth, and pure delight, by heavenly lays. 
O might my name be numbered among theirs, 
Then gladly would I end my mortal days ! 

William Wordsworth 



BEQUEST. 

Gold I 've none, for use or show, 

Neither silver to bestow 

At my death ; but thus much know : 

That each lyric here shall be 
Of my love a legacy, 
Left to all posterity. 

Gentle Friends, then do but please 
To accept such coins as these, 
As my last remembrances. 



Robert Herrick 



PREFACE. 



Reader : — I have brought you here, as one who loves you might 
bring you pansies and forget-me-nots, such flowers of lyric tenderness 
and beauty as have long been precious to my own heart, in the hope 
that their names and symbols may find a favored place in yours ; 
and I have added, here and there, some pretty waif, newly found by 
the wayside. 

To fit your nobler emotions, each with its appropriate inspiration 
or sympathy — courage for courage, brotherhood for brotherhood, 
resignation for resignation, love for love, whatever may make the 
fireside dearer for every dear association that dwells, in the form or 
the spirit, near it — has been my pleasant office; and I have culled 
the several flowers that stand for these with a true heart of kind- 
liness. 

" Reverend Sirs, 

For you there's rosemary and rue ; these keep 
Seeming and savor, all the Winter long. 
Grace and remembrance be to you ! " 

" Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram, 
The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun, 
And with him rises, weeping: these are flowers 
Of middle Summer, and I think they are given 
To men of middle asre." 



PREFACE. 

And, my Fairest Friend, I think I have some flowers o' the Spring 
that may become your time of day : — 

" Daffodils, 
That come before the swallow dares, and take 
The winds of March with beauty ; violets dim, 
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, 
Or Cytherea's breath ; pale primroses, 
That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
Bright Phoebus in his strength — a malady 
Most incident to maids ; bold oxlips, and 
The crown imperial ; lilies of all kinds, 
The flower-de-luce being one" — 

with snowdrops of young purity and sinless death. 

Take these, all of you, and lay them in your bosoms. You that 

have lost friend or fortune, love or a darling life, shall find your 
proper consolation here ; and turn a kindly thought to him who, in 

gathering them, has hoped but to find his way to your hearts by 

favor of what you like the best, having never a care for the mere 

method of his gift — which must perforce win you, since it is alto- 
gether of pure love. 

And as for those who, with pen or pencil, have helped to make 
my gift more charming, no thanks of yours or mine can half so 
well reward them as the sense of having joined to produce a thing 
of beauty and a joy forever, such as a writer in Blackwood hoped 
for, when, in an article on " Picture-books," he wrote as follows : — 

" Whether it will ever be possible to make verses and pictures ' to 
match,' without sacrificing one of the united arts, is a question which we 
will not undertake to answer. It does not seem at all unreasonable, how- 
ever, to suppose that we, who do a great deal for money, might now and 
then be capable of doing a little — our very best — for love; nor that, for 



PREFACE. 

their own sakes, as well as for the sake of the non-producing world, liter- 
ature and art might not sometimes make a volume — the chef-d'oeuvre, in 
little, of everybody employed upon it — which should remain to our chil- 
dren after us, the true ideal of gift-books, and console the workers in it 
with the comfortable thought of one true and worthy present, worthily 
accompanied, to those unknown friends for whom we make all our books 
and paint all our pictures. However, no one has attempted the experi- 
ment ; nobody has tried to get up the ideal gift-book — the love-token 
worthy of all the authors and all the givers, and of the very love itself 
of which it should be a sign." 

J. W. P. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

THE SINGERS Longfellow 3 

God sent his singers upon earth 

PHILOMELA * Matthew Arnold ... 5 

Hark ! ah, the Nightingale ! 

LUCY ASHTON'S SONG Scott 6 

Look not thou on Beauty's charming ; 

THE PIPER Blake 7 

Piping down the valleys wild, 

THE AWAKENING OF ENDYMION Landon 8 

Lone upon a mountain, the pine-trees wailing round him, 

TOMMY'S DEAD Dobell 11 

You may give over plough, boys, 

LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW Anonymous 15 

My love he built me a bonny bower, 

THE PAUPER'S DRIVE Noei 17 

There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot : 

WINIFREDA Anonymous 18 

Away ! let naught to love displeasing, 

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK ! Tennyson 20 

THE PASSAGE Uhland. (German.). . 21 

Many a year is in its grave Anonymous Translation. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG Cunningham ■ 23 

O, my love's like the steadfast sun, 

ABOU BEN ADHEM-..-. Hunt 25 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) 

MONTROSE TO HIS MISTRESS 26 

Marquis of Montrose. 
My dear and only love, I pray 

TOO LATE I STAYED Spencer 27 

Too late I stayed — forgive the crime; 

SHE IS A MAID OF ARTLESS GRACE ..-Vicente. (Portuguese.) 28 

Longfellow's Translation. 

SPRING AND WINTER Shakspeare 2i> 

When daisies pied, and violets -blue, 

THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER • Uhland. (German.) • ■ 30 

Three student-comrades crossed over the Rhine ; 

Leland and Palmer s Translation. 

FAREWELL TO NANCY Burns 32 

Ae fond kiss — and then we sever ! 

THE MARINER'S WIFE Mickle 33 

And are ye sure the news is true ? 

JENNY KISSED ME Hunt 36 

Jenny kissed me when we met, 

LOVE Samuel Taylor Coleridge 37 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 

LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT Anonymous 41 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

LITTLE AND GREAT Mackay 43 

A traveller, through a dusty road, 

HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND ? Anonymous 45 



CONTENTS. 

PACK 

SONG Maria Brooks 46 

Day, in melting purple dying ! 

THE LAST LEAF Holmes 48 

I saw him once before, 

TO ALTHEA— FROM PRISON Lovelace 50 

When Love, with unconfined wing?, 

TOM BOWLING Dibdin 52 

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI Keats 53 

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms ! 

BABY'S SHOES Bennett 55 

O those little, those little blue shoes, 

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS Hood 57 

One more unfortunate, 

THE HOLLY TREE- • • • • Southey 61 

reader ! hast thou ever stood to see 

MY CHILD Piekpont 63 

1 cannot make him dead ! 

IT NEVER COMES AGAIN Stoddard 66 

There are gains for all our losses, 

THE AGE OF WISDOM Thackeray 67 

Ho! pretty page, with the dimpled chin, 

THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD Longfellow 69 

We sat within the farm-house old, 

ASK ME NO MORE Tennyson 71 

Ask me no more : the moon may draw the sea ; 

THE BELFRY PIGEON Willis 72 

On the cross-beam under the Old South bell 

xlii 



CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

VULCAN, CONTRIVE ME SUCH A CUP Anacreon. (Greek.)- 74 

Earl of Rochester s Translation. 

JOHN ANDERSON Burns 75 

John Anderson, my jo John, 

JEANIE MORRISON Motherwell 76 

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 

HESTER Lamb 80 

When maidens such as Hester die, 

THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES 82 

Duke of Orleans. (French.) 
To make my lady's obsequies, Gary's Translation. 

A DEATH-BED James Aldrich 83 

Her suffering ended with the day ; 

ANNABEL LEE Poe 84 

It was many and many a year ago, 

EDWARD, EDWARD Anonymous 85 

Quhy dois zour brand sae drap wi' bluid, 

THE BUCKET • • • • Woodworth 88 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, 

TO CELIA Philostratus. (Greek.) 89 

Drink to me only with thine eyes, Jonsons Translation. 

WHEN WE TWO PARTED Byron 90 

TOO LATE Muloch 91 

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, 

CHANGES Robert Bulwer Lytton 92 

Whom first we love, you. know, we seldom wed. 

LOSS AND GAIN Perry 94 

When the baby died, we said, 

xiv 



CONTENTS. 

PAGK 

THOSE EVENING BELLS -Moore • • • 95 

Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! 

SONG Carew 96 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, 

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO 

AIX • • Robert Browning •• • 97 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he: 

YOUTH AND AGE Samuel Taylor Coleridge 100 

Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, 

TO MARY Coavper 102 

The twentieth year is well-nigh past 

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER Tennyson 104 

It is the miller's daughter, 

THE SHEPHERD'S SON Baillie 105 

The gowan glitters on the sward, 

THE LORELEI Heine. (German.). • • • 107 

I know not what it presages, Cr cinch's Translation. 

WITHOUT AND WITHIN James Russell Lowell 108 

My coachman, in the moonlight there, 

SIR PATRICK SPENS Anonymous 1 10 

The king sits in Dunfermline town, 

AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE- Hunt 115 

How sweet it were, if without feeble fright, 

THE MURDERED TRAVELLER Bryant 116 

When Spring, to woods and wastes around, 

LOVE Hervey 118 

He stood beside a cottage lone, 

ANGELS BY THE DOOR Barnes 120 

O ! there be angels evermwore, 



CONTENTS. 

PAGK 

COME BACK ! Anonymous 121 

Come from your long, long roving, 

EP1THALAMIUM • • Brainard 122 

I saw two clouds at morning, 

SONG TO MAY • • • Lord Thurlow 123 

May ! queen of blossoms, 

THE RHODORA Emerson 124 

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, 

THE NIGHT PIECE Herrick 125 

Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee, 

HANNAH BINDING SHOES Larcom • 126 

Poor lone Hannah, 

THE LIVING LOST Bryant 128 

Matron, the children of whose love, 

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT ••• Blackwood 130 

I'm sitting on the stile, Mary, 

A CHRISTMAS HYMN Dommett 132 

It was the calm and silent night ! 

THE POET'S CHRISTMAS Macfarlane .... 134 

Cold Christmas eve ! the muffled waits 

THE FAIRIES Allingham 137 

Up the airy mountain, 

SUMMER DAYS Anonymous 140 

In Summer, when the days were long, 

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM Hood 142 

'Twas in the prime of summer time, 

WHEN STARS ARE IN THE QUIET SKIES 150 

Edward Bulwer Lytton 



CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

MADRIGAL Anonymous 151 

As I saw fair Chloris walk alone, 

LUCY Wordsworth 152 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways, 

THE SAILOR Allingham 153 

Thou that hast a daughter 

THE MERRY CHASSEUR Dobell 155 

0, a gallant sans-peur 

DELIGHT IN DISORDER Herrick 156 

A sweet disorder in the dress 

THE JOINERS Palmer 157 

The moon is round and big, and full 

TO LUCASTA Lovelace 161 

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde, 

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE Marlowe 162 

Come live with me, and be my love, 

THE NYMPH'S REPLY Raleigh 163 

If that the world and love were young, 

TO THE UNSATISFIED Winslow 165 

Why thus longing, thus forever sighing 

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE Collins 167 

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 

THE DIRGE OF IMOGEN Shakspeare 168 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 

YORK AND LANCASTER Anonymous 169 

If this fair rose offend thy sight, 

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT Hood 170 

With fingers weary and worn, 



CONTENTS. 

PAGli 

ELEGY King 174 

Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed, 

THE DEATH-BED Hood 175 

We watched her breathing through the night, 

AULD ROBIN GRAY Lindsay- • • • 176 

When the sheep are in the faulcl, and the kye at hame, 

NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR • • ■ Campbell • 178 

I love contemplating, apart 

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE- • -Texxyson 181 

Half a league, half a league, 

CRADLE SONG Holland 184 

What is the little one thinking about ? 

HE STANDETH AT THE DOOR AND KNOCKETII ••-• 18ti 

COX R. 

In the silent midnight watches, 

THE CROOKED FOOTPATH ..-Holmes 187 

Ah, here it is ! the sliding rail 

VANITAS Goethe. (German.) • • 189 

I've set my heart upon nothing, you see : Dwight's Translation. 

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR Ferguson 191 

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged! 'tis at a white heat now: 

THE LAWLANDS O' HOLLAND Anonymous 105 

The love that I liae chosen, 

THE FLOWER OF BEAUTY Daeley 196 

Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, 

POOR JACK DiimiN 197 

Gro patter to lubbers and swabs, d'ye see, 

WE PARTED IN SILENCE Crawford 199 

We parted in silence, we parted by night, 



CONTENTS. 

PAGli 

THE SANDS O' DEE • Kingsley • • 200 

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home, 

THE RECONCILIATION • Tennyson 202 

As through the land at eve we went, 

THE GARRET • • • • Beranger. (French.) 203 

O, it was here that Love his gifts bestowed Mahony's Translation. 

MAUD MULLER Whittier 205 

Maud Muller, on a summer's day, 

O, WEEL BEFA' THE MAIDEN GAY Hogg 212 

THE LAND O' THE LEAL Nairn 2L4 

I'm wearin' awa', Jean, 

THE THREE SONS Moultrie 215 

I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, 

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER 217 

Keats. 
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, 

THE VIOLET Story 219 

O faint, delicious, spring-time violet, 

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL Lodge 220 

Love in my bosom, like a bee, 

VIRTUE Herbert ■ 221 

Sweet day ! so cool, so calm, so bright, 

SONG Kingsley 222 

The world goes up, and the world goes down, 

WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY Anonymous 223 

O waly, waly up the bank, 

THE WELCOME- Davis 225 

Come in the evening, or come in the morning ; 

xix 



CONTENTS. 

VAGE 

SONG . . Herrick 227 

Gather the rosebuds as ye may: 

THE FISHERMEN Kingsley 228 

Three fishers went sailing out into the west, 

OLD TIMES Griffin • • 229 

Old times, old times, the gay old times, 

THE BROOK-SIDE • Milnes 231 

I wandered by the brook-side, 

THE SONG OF THE DYING Dowling •-. 233 

We meet 'neath the sounding rafter, 

A PETITION TO TIME Procter 235 

Touch us gently, Time ! 

THE FIRST SNOW-FALL James Russell Lowell 236 

The snow had begun in the gloaming, 

LITTLE BELL Westwood • • • • 238 

Piped the blackbird on the beech wood spray : 

SIR MARMADUKE Colman 241 

Sir Marmaduke was a hearty knight : 

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER Hood 242 

SONG OF THE SILENT LAND • • Yon Salis. (German.) 244 

Into the Silent Land ! Longfellow's Translation. 

THE ONE GRAY HAIR Landor 245 

The wisest of the wise 
THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION Wither 246 

Shall I, wasting in despair, 

THE OLD CONTINENTALS McMaster 247 

In their ragged regimentals 

A CHARADE •„ Praed 250 

Come from my First — ay, come ! 



CONTENTS. 

PAG!'. 

THE FADED VIOLET Thomas Bailey Aldrich 252 

What thought is folded in thy leaves ! 

0! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM. 253 

Byron. 

TO PRIMROSES Herrick 254 

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears 

TO BLOSSOMS Herrick 255 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 

TO DAFFODILS Herrick 256 

Fair daffodils, we weep to see 

HOW'S MY BOY? Dobell 257 

" Ho, sailor of the sea ! 

TO THE HUMBLEBEE Emerson 259 

Burly, dozing bumblebee ! 

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP Robert Browning- • • 261 

You know we French stormed Ratisbon. 

A SPINNING-WHEEL SONG John Francis Waller 263 

Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning ; 

MY LOVE James Russell Lowell 265 

Not as all other women are 

SONG Campbell 268 

Drink ye to her that each loves best, 

MADAME LA MARQUISE Robert Bulwer Lytton 269 

The folds of her wine-dark violet dress 

BEWARE • Anonymous. (German.) 272 

I know a maiden fair to see : Longfellow's Translation. 

SONG Suckling 273 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover ? 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

LEFT BEHIND Percy 274 

It was the autumn of the year; 

TAKE, O TAKE, THOSE LIPS AWAY- -Shakspeare and Fletcher 276 

OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW-. Burns 277 

OLD Hoyt 278 

By the wayside, on a mossy stone, 

NO MORE Hemans 285 

No more ! a harp-string's deep and breaking tone, 

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES Lamb 287 

T have had playmates, I have had companions, 

A SNOW-STORM • -Eastman • • • • 288 

'Tis a fearful night in the winter time, 

THE OLD MAID Welby 293 

Why sits she thus in solitude? Her heart 

EPITAPH ON EROTION Martial. (Latin.) • • • 295 

Underneath this greedy stone Hunfs Translation. 

BABY MAY Bennett 296 

Cheeks as soft as July peaches ; 

THE RAVEN Poe 297 

Once, upon a midnight dreary, 

ON A GIRDLE * Edmund Waller • • • • 305 

That which her slender waist confined 

THE MOTHER'S LAST SONG Procter 306 

Sleep! — The ghostly winds are blowing; 

AT THE CHURCH GATE Thackeray 307 

Although I enter not, 

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT Wordsworth 308 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE MOTHER NIGHTINGALE Villegas. (Spanish.) 309 

I have seen a nightingale Thomas Roscoe's Translation. 

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE- .... -Motherwell ••• 311 

KORNER'S SWORD SONG •••••. Korner. (German.) •• 314 

Sword at my left side gleaming ! Chorley's Translation. 

THE RIVER TIME Benjamin Franklin Taylor 318 

! a wonderful stream is the River Time, 

GIVE ME THE OLD Messinger 319 

Old wine to drink ! 

LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR Shelley 322 

1 arise from dreams of thee 

THE BELLS OF SHANDON Mahony 323 

With deep affection 

THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE Tennyson 326 

Tears, idle tears! I know not what they mean: 

THE DAY-DREAM Samuel Taylor Coleridge 327 

Mine eyes make pictures when they 're shut : 

IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE DIED 328 

Wolfe. 

SUMMEE LONGINGS McCarthy 330 

Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 

THE FISHER'S COTTAGE Heine. (German.). • • 331 

We sat by the fisher's cottage, Leland's Translation. 

WAKE, LADY Baillie 333 

Up ! quit thy bower ! late wears the hour, 

THE MERRY LARK WAS UP AND SINGING ••••• • 334 

KlNGSLEY. 

The merry, merry lark was up and singing, 
THE DULE'S V THIS BONNET O' MINE Waugh 335 



CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

THE VOICELESS Holmes 336 

We count the broken lyres that rest 

THE CAVE OF SILVER O'Brien 338 

Seek me the cave of silver ! 

A DIRGE Webster • 340 

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, 

REST AND LABOR Muloch 341 

" Two hands upon the breast, 

GULF-WEED Fenner 342 

A weary weed, tossed to and fro, 

EXHORTATION TO PRAYER Mercer 343 

Not on a prayerless bed, not on a prayerless bed 

THE GOOD GREAT MAN Samuel Taylor Coleridge 345 

How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits 

DIRGE OF JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER .-Herricr ..'»..... : 346 

O thou, the wonder of all dayes ! 

THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN- 349 

Marvell. 
The wanton troopers, riding by, 

THE WEEPEN LIADY Barnes 353 

When Hate o' nights, above the green, 

DRIFTING Read 355 

My soul to-day 

EVENING Tennyson 359 

Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, 

UNSEEN SPIRITS Willis 360 

The shadows lay along Broadway : 

MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE ••• Wilde 362 



CONTENTS. 

l'AGK 

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS- • Longfellow 3G3 

It was the schooner Hesperus 

THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD, MY JEANIE 367 

Cunningham. 

WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST Scott 368 

PASSING THY DOOR Swain 370 

! 'twas the world to ine, 

BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL Anonymous 371 

Hie upon Hielands, 

BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND Shakspeare 372 

THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR Pfizer. (German.).- • 373 

A youth, light-hearted and content, Longfellow's Translation. 

THE LORDS OF THULE Anonymous. (German.) 374 

The Lords of Thule it did not please Anonymous Translation. 

THE ERL-KING Goethe. (German.) -375 

Who rides so late through the grisly night? Martin's Translation. 

THE PHANTOM Bayard Taylor 377 

Again I sit within the mansion, 

THE MORNING-GLORY Maria White Lowell 379 

We wreathed about our darling's head 

A DIRGE William Stanley Roscoe 382 

" O dig a grave, and dig it deep, 

OVER THE RIVER Priest 384 

Over the river they beckon to me, 

THE BAREFOOT BOY Whittier 386 

Blessings on thee, little man, 

FLORENCE VANE Cooke 390 

1 loved thee long and dearly. 



d 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE ROSE Edmund Waller • • • • 392 

Go, lovely rose ! 

WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER ••• -Norton 393 

SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN Cunningham 394 

She's gane to dwall in Heaven, ray lassie ! 

COME. BEAUTEOUS DAY Hurlbut 395 

A LITTLE WHILE Bonar 397 

Beyond the smiling and the weeping 

LULLABY Tennyson 399 

Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

MEA CULPA Anonymous 400 

At me one night the angry moon, 

HYMN TO THE FLOWERS Horace Smith 401 

Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with morn, to twinkle 

THE CROWDED STREET Bryant 404 

Let me move slowly through the street, 

A DEAD ROSE Elizabeth Barrett Browning 406 

rose ! who dares to name thee ? 

THE MOTHER'S FIRST GRIEF Chilton 407 

She sits beside the cradle. 

YE MEANER BEAUTIES Wotton 409 

Ye meaner beauties of the night, 

WIND AND RAIN Stoddard 410 

Rattle the window, Winds ! 

A HEALTH Pinkney 411 

1 fill this cup to one made up 

ABSENCE Butler 412 

What shall I do with all the days and hours 



XXVi 



CONTENTS. 

l'AGK 

A WISH • Rogers 414 

Mine be a cot beside the hill ! 

ODE ON SOLITUDE Pope 415 

Happy the man whose wish and care 

BINGEN ON THE RHINE Norton 416 

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers : 

THE SEA- Stoddard 41! R 

Through the night, through the night, 

HOME, SWEET HOME Payne 420 

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE Morris 421 

WHEN THE KYE COME HAME Hogg 42'; 

Come all ye jolly shepherds, 

THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE Norton 425 

Word was brought to the Danish king, 

THE MAIDEN'S CHOICE Anonymous 427 

Genteel in personage, 

I'M GROWING OLD Saxe 428 

My days pass pleasantly away, 

DINNA ASK ME Duxlop 430 

! dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye : 

SONG OF THE BROOK Tennyson 431 

1 come from haunts of coot and hern ; 

THE WAR-SONG OF DINAS VAWR Peacock 434 

The mountain sheep are sweeter, 

MOTHER MARGERY Burleigh 436 

On a bleak ridge, from whose granite edges 

THE WIDOW AND CHILD Tennyson 439 

Home they brought her warrior dead ; 

xxvii 



CONTENTS. 

TAG* 

LOUIS XV. Sterling 440 

The king, with all the kingly train, had left his Pompadour be- 
hind, 

THE WONDERFU' WEAN Miller 442 

Our wean's the most wonderfu' wean e'er I saw ; 

THE STORMING OF MAGDEBURGH Maginn 444 

When the breach was open laid, 

THE MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA Chatterton 446 

O, sing unto my roundelay ! 

I GIVE MY SOLDIER-BOY A BLADE Maginn 448 

THE MAHOGANY TREE Thackeray 449 

Christmas is here : 

THE GRACE OF SIMPLICITY Joxson 451 

Still to be neat, still to be drest 

JAMES MELVILLE'S CHILD Menteath 452 

One time my soul was pierced as with a sword, 

TO MARY IN HEAVEN Burns 455 

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, 

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM Campbell 457 

Our bugles sang truce ; for the night-cloud had lowered, 

IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND Carew 458 

WILLIE WINKLE Miller 460 

W r ee Willie Winkie rins through the town, 

THE CHESS-BOARD Robert Bulwer Lytton 461 

My little love, do you remember, 

THE ROYAL GUEST Howe 462 

They tell me I am shrewd with other men ; 

THINK OF ME Reynolds 463 

Go where the water glideth gently ever, 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

COME, LET US KISSE AND PAKTE ! . Drayton 464 

Since there 's no helpe — come, let us kisse and parte ! 

QUA CURSUM VENTUS Clough 465 

As ships becalmed at eve, that lay 

MEETING AND PARTING Robert Browning . . 467 

The gray sea, and the long black land ; 

FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR 468 

Thomas Moore. 

AS I LAY A-THINKING Barham 469 

As I lay a-thinking, a-thinking, a-thinking, 

ADIEU • • • Carlylk 471 

Let time and chance combine, combine, 

WHEN YOUR BEAUTY APPEARS Parneli 4 72 

SHE IS NOT FAIR Hartley Coleridge. 473 

She is not fair to outward view, 

THE TIGER Blake 473 

Tiger ! tiger ! burning bright, 

THE SEA-FIGHT Anonymous 474 

Ah, yes — the fight ! Well, messmates, well ! 

TO PERILLA Herrick 480 

All, my Perilla ! dost thou grieve to see 

ON THE DEATH OF THE POET DRAKE Haileck 481 

Green be the turf above thee, 

THE BEGGAR'S COURAGE Rumi. (Persian.) 482 

To heaven approached a Sufi saint, 

Alger's Translation. 

THE HAPPY LIFE Wotton 483 

How happy is he born and taught 

xxix 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

SONNET : ON HIS BLINDNESS Milton 484 

When I consider how my light is spent, 

DIRGE Beddoes 485 

If thou wilt ease thine heart 

MY RIVER Moerike. (German.) . 485 

River! my River, in the young sunshine! Mangans Translation. 

LOVE NOT ME Anonymous 487 

Love not me for comely grace, 

PHILIP, MY KING Mdloch 488 

Look at me with thy large brown eyes, 

THE GIFTS OF GOD Herbert 490 

When God at first made man, 

THE HYMN" OF DAMASCENUS Damascenus. (Greek.) 491 

From my lips in their defilement, 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Translation. 

A THANKSGIVING Howells 493 

Lord, for the erring thought 

EXCELSIOR Longfellow 493 

The shades of night were falling fast, 

THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDAS Marvell 495 

Where the remote Bermudas ride 

S ABINA Conoreve 49 7 

See, see ! She wakes — Sabina wakes ! 

THE CALL Darley 497 

Awake thee, my lady-love, 

THE RIVER-GOD TO AMORET Fletcher 498 

I am this fountain's god. Below, 

TO CYNTHIA Jonson 500 

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, 

XXX 



. CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET Hunt 501 

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, 

PASSING THE ICEBERGS Read 501 

A fearless shape of brave device, 

A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE Anonymous 505 

This ae nighte, this ae nighte, 

BUGLE SONG Tennyson 506 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

ECHO AND SILENCE Brydges •• 507 

In eddying course when leaves began to fly, 

INVOCATION OF SILENCE Flecknoe 508 

Still-born Silence ! thou that art 

WISHES, • • • ■ Crashaw 508 

Whoe'er she be, 

ARAB LOVE Shelley 514 

My faint spirit was sitting in the light 

THE MIGHT OF ONE FAIR FACE Michael Angelo. (Italian). 515 

The might of one fair face sublimes my love, 

Hartley Coleridge's Translation. 

TIBBIE Burns 516 

Tibbie, I hae seen the day 

WHEN JHE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN ..Thomas B. Aldrioh- 518 
When the Sultan Shah-Zaman 

THE ANGEL Blake 520 

1 dreamed a dream— what can it mean? 

MY LADY SINGING De Vere 521 

She whom this heart must ever hold most dear 



CONTENTS. 

PACK 

THE SWORD OF CASTRUCCIO CASTRUCANI 521 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
When Victor Emmanuel, the king, 

SONG OF ARIEL Shakspeare 523 

Full fathom five thy father lies ; 

THE PARTING LOVERS Anonymous. (Chinese.) 524 

She says, the cock crows — hark ! Alger's Translation. 

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN Wordsworth 525 

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, 

THE ANGLER'S WISH Walton 526 

I in these flowery meads would be ; 

FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE Palmer 527 

The night is late, the house is still ; 

MARIAN'S SONG Rossetti 530 

Deeper than the hail can smite, 

MATIN HYMN Hkrbkrt 531 

I cannot ope mine eyes 

THE GENTLE SOUL Redi. (Italian.) 532 

Ye gentle souls ! ye love-devoted fair ! Landors Translation. 

TO KEEP A TRUE LENT Herrick 533 

Is this a fast : to keep 

THE EMIGRANTS Freiligrath. (German.) 534 

I cannot take my eyes away Charles T. Brooks s Translation. 

TO THE NIGHTINGALE Milton 536 

Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray 

THE DWINA Countess Orloff. (Russian.; 537 

Stony-browed Dwina, thy face is as flint ! 

Mrs. Ogilvie's Translation. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

SONG OF FAIRIES ... Randolph. (Latin.) . . 540 

We the fairies, blithe and antic. Hunt's Translation. 

SIR PETER Peacock 540 

In his last bin Sir Peter lies, 

ARMSTRONG'S GOOD-NIGHT Anonymous 541 

This night is my departing night, 

THE LEGEND OF THE STEPMOTHER Buchanan 542 

As I lay asleep, as I lay asleep, 

THE KNIGHT'S TOMB Samuel Taylor Coleridge 546 

Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn ? 

KULNASATZ, MY REINDEER Anonymous. (Icelandic) 547 

Anonymous Translation. 

THE ROSEBUD Keble 548 

When Nature tries her finest touch, 

UP-HILL Rossetti 551 

Does the road wind up-hill all the way ? 

THE SENTRY Heine. (German.) ... 552 

My heart, my heart is weary ; LelanoVs Translation. 

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US Wordsworth 553 

The world is too much with us : late and soon, 

SONG Heywood 554 

Pack, clouds, away ! and welcome, day ! 

BOATMAN'S HYMN Anonymous. (Irish.) . 555 

Bark, that bears me through foam and squall, 

Ferguson's Translation. 

NEARER TO THEE .Adams 557 

Nearer, my God, to Thee, 

THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE 558 

Ingelow. 
The old mayor climbed the belfrey tower, 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

COME, SLEEP, O SLEEP Sidney 565 

Come, Sleep, O Sleep ! the certain knot of peace, 

HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE Collins 566 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 

SONG Davenant 566 

The lark now leaves his watery nest, 

JO IDEJE LEMENT A NAP Petofi. (Hungarian.) 567 

All the earth is wrapped in shadows, Bowrincfs Translation. 

THE SABBATH MORNING Leyden 568 

With silent awe I hail the sacred morn, 

THE SABBATH Edward Bulwer Lytton 569 

Fresh glides the brook, and blows the gale, 

THE PRIEST Breton 570 

I would I were an excellent divine, 

THE MAKING OF MAN Swinburne. . . 572 

Before the beginning of years 

SEVEN TIMES ONE Ingelow 574 

There 's no dew left on the daisies and clover, 

AH, CHLORIS Sedley. . . 576 

Ah, Chloris ! that I now could sit 

SIXTEEN Landor 577 

In Clementina's artless mien 

IN VAIN YOU TELL Prior 578 

In vain you tell your parting lover 

THE LOVER TO THE GLOW-WORMS Marvell 579 

Ye living lamps, by whose dear light 

THE WEE GREEN NEUK Bailey 579 

O the wee green neuk, the sly green neuk, 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

WHEN I COME HOME Massey 581 

Around me Life's hell of fierce ardors burns, 

CALM IS THE NIGHT Heine. (German.) ... 583 

Calm is the night, and the city is sleeping. Leland's Translation. 

IF I DESIRE WITH PLEASANT SONGS Burbidge 584 

THE UNTDISCO YERED COUNTRY Stedman 585 

Could we but know 

THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE Arnold 586 

'T was a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, 

BESIDE THE SEA Winter 589 

They walked beside the Summer sea, 

CAUGHT Stoddard 590 

Birds are singing round my window, 

A DEDICATION Swinburne 590 

The sea gives her shells to the shingle, 

THE LAST POET Yon Auersperg. (German.) 594 

"When will your bards be weary Frothingham s Translation. 



ILLUSTKATIONS. 



Subject Drawn by Engraved by Page 

Title-Page White Van Ingen §• Snyder 

The Singers. 

" To charm, to strengthen, and to teach.". . .Macdonough . . . Anthony 3 

Tommy's Dead Eytinge Anthony . . 11 

Break, Break, Break ! 

u On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! " Parsons Anthony 20 

" And the stately ships go on " Parsons Inthony 21 

The Landlady's Daughter .Vast Anthony . , . 31 

Jenny Kissed Me Hoppin Bobbett 8f Hooper ... 36 

The Last Leaf Hennessy inthony 48 

The Bridge of Sighs Eytinge inthony 57 

The Age of Wisdom Eytinge inthony 6 7 

Jeanie Morrison Houghton Andrew $' Filmer. . . 78 

Edward, Edward Ehninger Hayes 87 

How they Brought the Good News. 

" ' Good speetl ! ' cried the watch " Heine Cox 97 

vt As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees 

on the ground ; " Meffert Cox 99 

Without and Within. 

*' My coachman, in the moonlight there,".. ..McLenan Anthony 108 

" The galley-slave of dreary forms." Ehninger Kinnersley 110 

The Murdered Traveller. McEntee Cox 116 

Hannah Binding Shoes Hoppin Cox 1 26 

The Fairies . .Rellew Cox 139 

Lucy Macdonough .... Andrew $f Filmer ... 152 

xx wi 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Subject Drawn by Engraved by Paqs 

The Joiners. 

" The moon is round and big," Macdonough . . Anthony. . . 157 

" Two figures cross the Joiner's sill," Macdonough . . . Anthony 159 

" Her vacant breast 

But coldly welcomes 'the coming guest;'". .Macdonough inthony 161 

The Song of the Shirt Hoppin Anthony 1 70 

The Charge of the Light Brigade . Meffert Andrew &r Filmer. .. 182 

Vanitas Ehninger J. H. Whitney 189 

The Sands o' Dee. 

" O Mary, go and call the cattle home," Macdonough . . . Anthony 200 

** The creeping tide came up along the 

sand," Macdonough . . . Cox 201 

" Her grave beside the sea ; " Macdonough . . . Cox 202 

Maud Muller. 

M The meadow, sweet with hay." Hill Indrew Sf Filmer. . . 205 

" A form more fair, a face more sweet," .... Macdonough . . . Anthony 208 

" The little spring-brook " Hill Bohhett 8p Hooper ... 210 

On first Looking into Chapman's 

Homer Chapman Hayes 218 

The Welcome Macdonough . . . Langridge 226 

The Brook-Side Smillie Inthony 23 1 

Sir Marmaduke -Vast Inthony 241 

The Old Continentals. 

" Then the bareheaded Colonel" Barley Anthony 249 

The Drummer Barley Anthony 250 

How's My Boy ? Macdonough . . . Kinnersley 25 7 

A Spinning- Wheel Song Hennessy Bohhett fr Hooper . . 264 

Song. 

" Drink ye to her that each loves best,". . . . Wallin Anthony 268 

Tail-piece Wallin, Anthony 269 

Old. 

" One sweet spirit broke the silent spell ; ". . Hennessy Cox 279 

" Brook, and bridge, and barn," Harry Cox 282 

A Snow-Storm. 

" 'Tis a fearful night in the winter time,". . . McEntee Cox 288 

11 Cold and dead, bv the hidden loor," McEntee Cox 291 



Engraved by 


Page 


.Cox 


. 305 


Cox 


. 314 


Cox 


. 317 


Bobbett cV Hooper. 


. 322 


Ward 


. 333 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Subject Drawn by 

Ox a Girdle Hoppin 

Korner's Sword Soxu. 

Initial Letter Heine 

Tail-piece Heine 

Lines to an Indian Air Leon Job. . . 

Wake, Lady ! Fenn 

Gulf-Weed Parsons Bobbett #• Hooper. . 342 

Evening Church Bobbett 8f Hooper. . 359 

The Erl-King Meffert J. H. Whitney 376 

The Barefoot Boy Johnson Andrew 8f Filme.r. . 386 

Lullaby Macdonough .... Langridge 399 

Wind and Rain Kensett Anthony 410 

BlNGEN ON THE RHINE. 

" A soldier of the Legion lay dying in 

Algiers :" Meffert ... Bobbett fy Hooper. . 416 

u Tell my sister not to weep for me," Meffert .Bobbett 8f Hooper. . 418 

" Fair Bingen on the Rhine." Meffert Cox 419 

Song of the Brook Smillie Cox 431 

James Melville's Child, Ehninger Hayes 454 

Qua Cursum Ventus Parsons . Langridge 465 

The Sea-Fight Ehninger Kinnersley 477 

Philip, My King . . . : E. J. Whitney . . . Hayes 488 

Passing the Icebergs Fenn ... Hayes 503 

Tibbie Ehninger • ./. H. Whitney 516 

The Angler's Wish Ward Ward 526 

The Emigrants Ward Ward 535 

The Knight's Tomb Fenn Ward 546 

Boatman's Hymn Parsons Langridge 556 - 

Seven Times One E. J. Whitney . . . Hayes 574 

Calm is the Night E. J. Whitney . . .Kingdon #• Boyd. . . 583 



AUTOGRAPHS. 



(LITHOGRAPHED BY ENDICOTT AND COMPANY.) 



THE SINGERS Longfellow, Frontispiece 

ABOU BEN ADHEM Leigh Hunt, to face page 25 



ASK ME NO MORE Tennyson, 

HOW-THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS Robert Browning, 

THE LIVING LOST Bryant, 

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT Hood, 

THE SANDS O' DEE Kingsley, 

MAUD MULLER Whittier. 

THE FIRST SNOW-FALI Lowell, 

TO THE HUMBLEBEE Emerson, 

THE MOTHER'S LAST SONG Barry Cornwall, 

THE VOICELESS Holmes, 

UNSEEN SPIRITS Willis, 

FLORENCE VANE Cooke. 

HOME, SWEET HOME! Payne, 

ON THE DEATH OF THE POET DRAKE Halleck, 

THE SWORD OF CASTRUCCIO CASTRUCANI 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

CAUGHT ! Stoddard 



71 

97 
128 
170 
200 
211 
236 
259 
306 
336 
360 
390 
420 
481 
523 

59C 



THE ARRANGEMENT. 



" 4 Methought that of these visionary flowers 
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way 
That the same hues, which in their natural bowers 
Were mingled or opposed, the like array 
Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours 
Within my hand ; and then, elate and gay, 
I hastened to the spot whence I had come, 
That I might there present it — O! to whom?" 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



jfOlk^OttgS. 




THE SINGERS. 



Gou sent his singers upon earth 
With songs of sadness and of mirth 
3 



THE SINGERS. 

That they might touch the hearts of men, 
And bring them back to heaven again. 

The first, a youth with soul of fire, 

Held in his hand a golden lyre ; 

Through groves he wandered, and by streams, 

Playing the music of our dreams. 

The second, with a bearded face, 
Stood singing in the market-place, 
And stirred, with accents deep and loud, 
The hearts of all the listening crowd. 

A gray old man, the third and last, 
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, 
While the majestic organ rolled 
Contrition from its mouths of gold. 

And those who heard the Singers three 
Disputed which the best might be ; 
For still their music seemed to start 
Discordant echoes in each heart. 

But the great Master said, "I see 

No best in kind, but in degree ; 

I gave a various gift to each : 

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. 

" These are the three great chords of might ; 
And he whose ear is tuned aright 
Will hear no discord in the three, 
But the most perfect harmony." 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

4 



PHILOMELA. 

Hark ! ah, the Nightingale ! 

The tawny-throated ! 

Hark ! from that moonlit cedar what a burst ! 

What triumph ! hark — what pain ! 

O wanderer from a Grecian shore, 

Still, after many years, in distant lands, 

Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain 

That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world pain ! 

Say, will it never heal ? 
And can this fragrant lawn, 
With its cool trees, and night, 
And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 
And moonshine, and the dew, 
To thy racked heart and brain 

Afford no balm? 

Dost thou to-night behold, 
Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, 
The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild ? 

Dost thou again peruse, 
With hot cheeks and seared eyes, 
The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame? 

Dost thou once more essay 
Thy flight; and feel come over thee, 
Poor fugitive, the feathery change, 
Once more ; and once more make resound, 

A-2 5 



LUCY ASHTON'S SONG. 

With love and hate, triumph and agony, 
Lone Daulis, and the high Cephisian vale? 

Listen, Eugenia ! 

How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves ! 

Again — thou hearest? 

Eternal passion ! 

Eternal pain ! 

Matthew Arnold. 



LUCY ASHTON'S SONG. 

Look not thou on Beauty's charming ; 
Sit thou still when kings are arming ; 
Taste not when the wine-cup glistens ; 
Speak not when the people listens ; 
Stop thine ear against the singer ; 
From the red gold keep thy finger : 
Vacant heart and hand and eye 
Easy live, and quiet die. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



THE PIPER. 

Piping down the valleys wild, 

Piping songs of pleasant glee, 
On a cloud I saw a child, 

And he, laughing, said to me: 

" Pipe a song about a lamb." 

So I piped with merry cheer. 
" Piper, pipe that song again." 

So I piped ; he wept to hear. 

" Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe ; 

Sing thy songs of happy cheer." 
So I sang the same again, 

While he wept with joy to hear. 

" Piper, sit thee down and write, 
In a book, that all may read." 

So he vanished from my sight, 
And I plucked a hollow reed, 

And I made a rural pen ; 

And I stained the water clear ; 
And I wrote my happy songs 

Every child may joy to hear. 

William Blake. 



THE AWAKENING OF ENDYMION 

Lone upon a mountain, the pine-trees wailing round him, 
Lone upon a mountain the Grecian youth is laid; 

Sleep, mystic sleep, for many a year has bound him, 

Yet his beauty, like a statue's, pale and fair, is undecayed. 
When will he awaken ? 

When will he awaken? a loud voice hath been crying- 
Night after night — and the cry has been in vain ; 

Winds, woods, and waves found echoes for replying, 

But the tones of the beloved one were never heard again. 

When will he awaken ? 
Asked the midnight's silver queen. 

Never mortal eye has looked upon his sleeping ; 

Parents, kindred, comrades, have mourned for him as dead 
By day the gathered clouds have had him in their keeping, 

And at night the solemn shadows round his rest are shed. 
When will he awaken ? 

Long has been the cry of faithful Love's imploring ; 

Long has Hope been watching with soft eyes fixed above. 
When will the Fates, the life of life restoring, 

Own themselves vanquished by much-enduring Love ? 
When will he awaken ? 

Asks the midnight's weary queen. 



THE AWAKENING OE ENDYMION. 

Beautiful the sleep that she has watched untiring, 
Lighted up with visions from yonder radiant sky, 

Full of an immortal's glorious inspiring, 

Softened by the woman's meek and loving sigh. 
When will he awaken ? 

He has been dreaming of old heroic stories, 

The Poet's passionate world has entered in his soul ; 

He has grown conscious of life's ancestral glories, 

When sages and when kings first upheld the mind's control. 

When will he awaken ? 
Asks the midnight's stately queen. 

Lo, the appointed midnight ! the present hour is fated ! 

It is Endymion's planet that rises on the ah" ; 
How long, how tenderly his goddess love has waited, 

Waited with a love too mighty for despair ! 
Soon he will awaken. 

Soft amid the pines is a sound as if of singing, 

Tones that seem the lute's from the breathing flowers depart; 
Not a wind that wanders o'er Mount Latinos but is brino-ins; 

Music that is murmured from Nature's inmost heart. 
Soon he will awaken 

To his and midnight's queen. 

Lovely is the green earth — she knows the hour is holy ; 

Starry are the heavens, lit with eternal joy ; 
Light like their own is dawning sweet and slowly 

O'er the fair and sculptured forehead of that yet dreaming boy. 
Soon he will awaken. 



THE AWAKENING OF ENDYMION. 

Red as the red rose toward the morning turning, 

Warms the youth's lip to the watcher's near his own ; 

While the dark eyes open — bright, intense, and burning 

With a life more glorious than, ere they closed, was known. 

Yes, he has awakened 
For the midnight's happy queen ! 

What is this old history, but a lesson given, 

How true love still conquers by the deep strength of truth ; 
How all the impulses, whose native home is heaven, 

Sanctify the visions of hope, and faith, and youth ? 
'Tis for such they waken. 

When every worldly thought is utterly forsaken, 

Comes the starry midnight, felt by life's gifted few ; 
Then will the spirit from its earthly sleep awaken 
To a being more intense, more spiritual, and true. 

So doth the soul awaken, 
Like that youth to night's fair queen! 

Letitia Elizabeth Landon 



10 




TOMMY'S DEAD. 



You may give over plough, boys, 
You may take the gear to the stead ; 
All the sweat o' your brow, boys, 
Will never get beer and bread. 
The seed's waste, I know, boys ; 
There's not a blade will grow, boys ; 
11 



TOMMY'S DEAD. 

'Tis cropped out, I trow, boys ; 
And Tommy's dead. 

Send the colt to tlie fair, boys : 

He's going blind, as I said ; 

My old eyes can't bear, boys, 

To see him in the shed. 

The cow's dry and spare, boys ; 

She's neither here nor there, boys : 

I doubt she's badly bred. 

Stop the mill to-morn, boys , 

There'll be no more corn, boys, 

Neither white nor red. 

There's no sign of grass, boys ; 

You may sell the goat and the ass, boys 

The land's not what it was, boys ; 

And the beasts must be fed. 

You may turn Peg away, boys ; 

You may pay off old Ned. 

We've had a dull day, boys ; 

And Tommy's dead. 

Move my chair on the floor, boys : 
Let me turn my head ; 
She's standing there in the door, boys — 
Your sister Winifred ! 
Take her away from me, boys — 
Your sister Winifred ! 
(Move me round in my place, boys : 
Let me turn my head ;) 
Take her away from me, boys — 
12 



TOMMY'S DEAD. 

As she lay on her death-bed : 

The bones of her thin face, boys, 

As she lay on her death-bed ! 

I don't know how it be, boys, 

When all's done and said, 

But I see her looking at me, boys, 

Wherever I turn my head : 

Out of the bio; oak-tree, bovs, 

Out of the garden-bed ; 

And the lily as pale as she, boys, 

And the rose that used to be red. 

There's something not light, boys. 
But I think it's not in my head ; 
I've kept my precious sight, boys : 
The Lord be hallowed ! 
Outside and in 

The ground is cold to my tread ; 
The hills are wizen and thin, 
The sky is shrivelled and shred ; 
The hedges down by the loan, 
I can count them bone by bone ; 
The leaves are open and spread. 
But I see the teeth of the land, 
And hands like a dead man's hand, 
And the eyes of a dead man's head. 
There's nothing but cinders and sand 
The rat and the mouse have fled, 
And the summer's empty and cold ; 
Over valley and wold, 
Wherever I turn my head, 
r2 13 



TOMMY'S DEAD. 

There's a mildew and a mould; 
The sun's going out over head, 
And I'm very old; 
And Tommy's dead. 

What am I staying for, boys ? 
You're all born and bred; 
'Tis fifty years and more, boys, 
Since wife and I were wed ; 
And she's gone before, boys ; 
And Tommy's dead. 

She was always sweet, boys, 

Upon his curly head ; 

She knew she'd never see't, boys, 

And she stole off to bed ; 

I've been sitting up alone, boys, 

For he'd come home, he said ; 

But it's time I was gone, boys, 

For Tommy's dead. 

Put the shutters up, boys : 

Bring out the beer and bread ; 

Make haste and sup, boys, 

For my eyes are heavy as lead ; 

There's something wrong i' the cup, boys, 

There's something ill wi' the bread ; 

I don't care to sup, boys ; 

And Tommy's dead. 

I'm not right, I doubt, boys, 
I've such a sleepy head ; 
14 



LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW. 

I shall never more be stout, boys; 
You may carry me to bed. 
What are you about, boys ? 
The- prayers are all said, 
The fire's raked out, boys ; 
And Tommy's dead. 

The stairs are too steep, boys, 
You may carry me to the head ; 
The night's dark and deep, boys, 
Your mother's long in bed ; 
'Tis time to go to sleep, boys ; 
And Tommy's dead. 

I'm not used to kiss, boys ; 

You may shake my hand instead. 

All things go amiss, boys ; 

You may lay me where she is, boys, 

And I'll rest my old head. 

'Tis a poor world, this, boys ; 

And Tommy's dead. 



Sydney Dobkll. 



LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW. 

My love he built me a bonny bower, 
And clad it a' wi' lilye flour ; 
A brawer bower ye ne'er did see 
Than my true love he built for me. 

15 



LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW. 

There came a man, by middle day; 
He spied his sport, and went away ; 
And brought the king that very night, 
Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. 

He slew my knight, to me sae dear ; 
He slew my knight, and poined his gear ; 
My servants all for life did flee, 
And left me in extremitie. 

I sewed his sheet, making my mane ; 
I watched the corpse, myself alane ; 
I watched his body, night and day; 
No living creature came that way. 

I took his body on my back, 
And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat ; 
I digged a grave, and laid him in, 
And happed him wi' the sod sae green. 

But think na ye my heart was sair, 
When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair ? 
O think na ye my heart was wae, 
When I turned about, away to gae ? 

Nae living man I'll love again, 
Since that my lovely knight is slain ; 
Wi' ae lock of his yellow hair 
I'll chain my heart for evermair. 



Anonymous. 



l(j 



THE PAUPER'S DRIVE. 

There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot : 
To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot ; 
The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs ; 
And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings : 

Rattle his bones over the stones! 

Hes only a pauper, whom nobody owns ! 

O, where are the mourners ? Alas ! there are none : 
He has left not a gap in the world, now he's gone — 
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ; 
To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can. 

Rattle his bones over the stones! 

Hes only a pauper, whom nobody owns ! 

What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din ! 
The whip, how it cracks ! and the wheels, how they spin ! 
How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled ! 
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world. 

Rattle his bones over the stones! 

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns ! 

Poor pauper defunct ! he has made some approach 
To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach. 
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last ; 
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast. 

Rattle his bones over the stones ! 

lies only a pauper, 'whom nobody owns ! 

C • 17 



WINIFRED A. 

You bumpkins, who stare at your brother conveyed, 
Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid ! 
And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low. 
You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go. 

Rattle his bones over the stones ! 

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns ! 

But a truce to this strain ; for my soul it is sad, 
To think that a heart in humanity clad 
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end, 
And depart from the light without leaving a friend ! 

Bear soft his bones over the stones ! 

Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns ! 

Thomas Nokl. 



WINIFREDA. 

Away ! let naught to love displeasing, 
My Winifreda, move your care ; 

Let naught delay the heavenly blessing, 
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. 

What though no grants of royal donors 
With pompous titles grace our blood ; 

We'll shine in more substantial honors, 
And to be noble we'll be ^ood. 

18 



WINIFREDA. 

Our name, while virtue thus we tender, 
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke ; 

And all the great ones, they shall wonder 
How they respect such little folk. 

What though from fortune's lavish bounty 

No mighty treasures we possess ; 
We'll find within our pittance plenty, 

And be content without excess. 

Still shall each kind returning season 

Sufficient for our wishes give ; 
For we will live a life of reason, 

And that's the only life to live. 

Through youth and age in love excelling, 
We'll hand in hand together tread; 

Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, 
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. 

How should I love the pretty creatures, 
While round my knees they fondly clung, 

To see them look their mother's features, 
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue ! 

And when with envy, Time, transported, 

Shall think to rob us of our joys, 
You'll in your girls again be courted, 

And I'll go wooing in my boys. 

Anonymous. 



19 




BREAK, BREAK, BREAK! 

Break, break, break,- 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 



O well for the fisherman's boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

O well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

20 



THE PASSAGE. 




And the stately ships go on 

To the haven under the hill ; 
But O for the touch of a vanished hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



THE PASSAGE. 



Many a year is in its grave 
Since I crossed this restless wave 
And the evening, fair as ever, 
Shines on ruin, rock, and river. 
21 



THE PASSAGE. 

Then, in this same boat beside, 
Sat two comrades old and tried : 
One with all a father's truth, 
One with all the fire of youth. 

One on earth in silence wrought, 
And his grave in silence sought ; 
But the younger, brighter form 
Passed in battle and in storm. 

So, whene'er I turn my eye 

Back upon the days gone by, 

Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, 

Friends that closed their course before me. 

But what binds us, friend to friend, 
But that soul with soul can blend? 
Soul-like were those hours of yore ; 
Let us walk in soul once more. 

Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee : 

Take — I give it willingly ; 

For, invisible to thee, 

Spirits twain have crossed with me. 

Joiiann Ludwig Uhland. (German.) 



Anonymous Translation. 



22 



THE POETS BRIDAL-DAY SONG. 

O, my love's like the steadfast sun, 
Or streams that deepen as they run ; 
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, 
Nor moments between sighs and tears, 
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, 
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain, 
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows 
To sober joys and soften woes, 
Can make my heart or fancy flee, 
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee. 

Even while I muse, I see thee sit 

In maiden bloom and matron wit ; 

Fair, gentle, as when first I sued, 

Ye seem, but of sedater mood ; 

Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee, 

As when, beneath Arbigland tree, 

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon 

Set on the sea an hour too soon ; 

Or lingered 'mid the falling dew, 

When looks were fond and words were few. 

Though I see smiling at thy feet, 
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet, 
And time and care and birthtime woes 
Have dimmed thine eye and touched thy rose 
23 



THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. 

To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong 
Whate'er charms me in tale or song. 
When words descend like dews, unsought, 
With gleams of deep, enthusiast thought, 
And Fancy in her heaven flies free, 
They come, my love, they come from thee. 

O, when more thought we gave, of old, 
To silver, than some give to gold, 
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er 
How we should deck our humble bower; 
'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee, 
The golden fruit of Fortune's tree ; 
And sweeter still to choose and twine 
A garland for that brow of thine, 
A song- wreath which may grace my Jean, 
While rivers flow, and woods grow green. 

At times there come, as come there ought, 

Grave moments of sedater thought, 

When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night 

One gleam of her inconstant light ; 

And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower, 

Shines like a rainbow through the shower. 

then I see, while seated nigh, 

A mother's heart shine in thine eye, 
And proud resolve and purpose meek 
Speak of thee more than words can speak. 

1 think this wedded wife of mine, 
The best of all that's not divine. 

Allan Cunningham. 
24 



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/lid- c&&rL/M.fto?3>t& t y krMptiJuL ?ie*t_ i 

di&c&L Jfiish4— 




ABOU BEN ADHEM. 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) 

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 

And saw within the moonlight in his room, 

Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, 

An angel writing in a book of gold : 

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, 

And to the Presence in the room he said, 

"What writest thou?" — The vision raised its head, 

And, with a look made of all sweet accord, 

Answered — " The names of those who love the Lord." 

" And is mine one ? " said Abou ; " Nay, not so," 

Replied the angel. — Abou spoke more low, 

But cheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee, then, 

Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night 

It came again, with a great wakening light, 

And showed the names whom love of God had blessed ; 

And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest ! 

Leigh Hunt. 



■lo 



MONTROSE TO HIS MISTRESS. 

My dear and only love, I pray 

That little world of thee 
Be governed by no other sway 

But purest monarchy ; 
For if confusion have a part, 

Which virtuous souls abhor, 
I'll call a synod in my heart, 

And never love thee more. 

As Alexander I will reign, 

And I will reign alone ; 
My thoughts did evermore disdain 

A rival on my throne. 
He either fears his fate too much, 

Or his deserts are small, 
Who dares not put it to the touch, 

To gain or lose it all. 

But I will reign and govern still, 

And always give the law, 
And have each subject at my will, 

And all to stand in awe ; 
But 'gainst my batteries if I find 

Thou storm or vex me sore, 
As if thou set me as a blind, 

I'll never love thee more. 

2fi 



TOO LATE I STAYED. 

And in the empire of thy heart, 

Where I should solely be, 
If others do pretend a part, 

Or dare to share with me ; 
Or committees if thou erect, 

Or go on such a score, 
I'll smiling mock at thy neglect, 

And never love thee more. 

But if no faithless action stain 

Thy love and constant word, 
I'll make thee famous by my pen, 

And glorious by my sword ; 
I'll serve thee in such noble ways 

As ne'er was known before ; 
I'll deck and crown thy head with bays, 

And love thee more and more. 

James Grahame, Marquis of Montrosk. 



TOO LATE I STAYED. 

Too late I stayed — forgive the crime; 

Unheeded flew the hours : 
How noiseless falls the foot of Time 

That only treads on flowers ! 

And who, with clear account, remarks 

The ebbings of his glass, 
When all its sands are diamond sparks, 

That dazzle as they pass? 



SHE IS A MAID OF ARTLESS GRACE. 

Ah ! who to sober measurement 

Time's happy swiftness brings, 
When birds of paradise have lent 

Their plumage to his wings ? 

Robert William Spencer. 



SHE IS A MAID OF ARTLESS GRACE. 

She is a maid of artless grace, 
Gentle in form, and fair of face. 

Tell me, thou ancient mariner, 

That sailest on the sea, 
If ship, or sail, or evening star, 

Be half so fair as she ! 

Tell me, thou gallant cavalier, 

Whose shining arms I see, 
If steed, or sword, or battle-field, 

Be half so fair as she ! 

Tell me, thou swain, that guard'st thy flock 

Beneath the shadowy tree, 
If flock, or vale, or mountain-ridge, 

Be half so fair as she ! 

Gil Vicente. (Portuguese.) 



Translation of Henry Wadswoktii Longfellow. 

28 



SPRING AND WINTER. 

I. 

When daisies pied, and violets blue, 
And lady-smocks all silver- white, 

And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue, 

Do paint the meadows with delight, 

The cuckoo then, on every tree, 

Mocks married men, for thus sings he : 
Cuckoo ! 

Cuckoo, cuckoo ! — O word of fear, 

Unpleasing to a married ear! 

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, 
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks, 

When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws, 
And maidens bleach their summer smocks. 

The cuckoo then, on every tree, 

Mocks married men, for thus sings he : 
Cuckoo ! 

Cuckoo, cuckoo ! — O word of fear, 

Unpleasing to a married ear ! 

ii. 
When icicles hang by the wall, 

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, 
And Tom bears logs into the hall, 
And milk comes frozen home in pail, 
d2 29 



THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER. 

When blood is nipped, and ways be foul, 
Then nightly sings the staring owl : 

To-who ! 
Tu-whit, to-who ! — a merry note, 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

When all aloud the wind doth blow, 

And coughing drowns the parson's saw, 
And birds sit brooding in the snow, 

And Marian's nose looks red and raw ; 
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, 
Then nightly sings the staring owl : 

To-who ! 
Tu-whit, to-who ! — a merry note, 
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 



Shakspkare. 



THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER. 

Three student-comrades crossed over the Rhine ; 
Together they stopped at a landlady's sign. 

" Landlady, have you good ale and wine ? 

And where is that pretty young daughter of thine ? " 

" My ale and wine are fresh and clear ; 
My daughter lies on her funeral bier/' 

And when they passed to the chamber back, 
There she lay, in her coffin black ! 

30 



THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER. 

The first from her face the shroud-veil took, 
And gazed upon her — a mournful look. 

" Ah ! wert thou but living, thou lovely maid, 
I would love thee from this time," he said. 

The second covered the altered face, 

And turned him, weeping, from the place : 




" That thou should' st lie on the funeral bier, 
Whom I have loved this many a year ! " 
31 



FAREWELL TO NANCY. 

But the last still snatched away the veil, 
And kissed her on the mouth so pale : 

"I loved thee ever — still I love thee, 
Thee will I love through eternity ! " 

Johann Ludwig Uhland. (German.) 
Translation of C. G. Leland and J. W. Palmer. 



FAREWELL TO NANCY. 

Ae fond kiss — and then we sever! 
Ae fareweel — alas, forever! 
Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge thee ; 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy ; 
Naething could resist my Nancy : 
But to see her was to love her, 
Love but her, and love forever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 
32 



TILE MARINER'S WIFE. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 
Ae fond kiss — and then we sever! 
Ae fareweel — alas, forever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee ; 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 

Robert Burns 



THE MARINER'S WIFE. 

And are ye sure the news is true? 

And are ye sure he's weel ? 
Is this a time to talk o' wark ? 
Ye jades, fling by your wheel ! 

For there 's nae hick about the house. 

There's nae luck ava ; 
There's little pleasure in the house 
When our gudemans awa\ 

Ts this a time to think o' wark, 

When Colin's at the door? 
Rax down my cloak — I'll to the quay, 

And see him come ashore. 

Rise up and mak a clean fireside, 
Put on the muckle pot, 



THE MARINER'S WIFE. 

Gie little Kate her cotton gown, 
And Jock his Sunday coat ; 

And mak their shoon as black as slaes, 
Their hose as white as snaw ; 

It's a' to please my ain gudeman, 
He likes to see them braw. 

There's twa fat hens into the crib, 
Been fed this month and mair; 

Mak haste and thra their necks about, 
That Colin weel may fare. 

And spread the table neat and clean, 

Gar ilka thing look braw ; 
It's a' for love of my gudeman, 

For he's been lang awa'. 

O gie me down my bigonet, 

My bishop-satin gown, 
And rin and tell the baillie's wife, 

That Colin's come to town. 

My Sunday shoon they maun gae on, 

My hose o' pearl blue ; 
It's a' to please my ain gudeman, 

For he's baith leal and true. 

Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech, 
His breath like caller air ! 



34 



THE MARINER'S WIFE. 

His very foot has music in't, 
When he comes up the stair. 

And will I see his face again ? 

And will I hear him speak ? 
I'm downright dizzy with the thought : 

In troth I'm like to greet. 

The cauld blasts of the winter wind 
That thrilled through my heart, 

They're a' blawn by ; I hae him safe : 
Till death we'll never part. 

But what puts parting in my head ? 

It may be far awa' : 
The present moment is our am ; 

The neist we never saw. 

Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content : 

I hae nae mair to crave ; 
Could I but live to mak him blest, 

I'm blest aboon the lave. 

And will I see his face ao-ain ? 
And will I hear him speak ? 
I'm downright dizzy with the thought : 



In troth I'm like to ^reet. 



William Julius Mickle. 



35 




JENNY KISSED ME. 



Jenny kissed me when we met, 

Jumping from the chair she sat in ; 
Time, you thief, who love to get 

Sweets into your list, put that in ! 
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad ; 

Say that health and wealth have missed me ; 
Say I'm growing dull, but add, 

Jenny kissed me ! 

Lkigh Hunt 



LOVE. 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour, 
When midway on the mount I lay, 
Beside the ruined tower. 

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
And she was there — my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

She leaned against the armed man, 
The statue of the armed knight ; 
She stood and listened to my lay, 
Amid the lingering: light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve ! 
She loves me best whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 
k 37 



LOVE. 

I played a soft and doleful air ; 
I sang an old and moving story : 
An old, rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listened with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
For well she knew I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And that for ten long years he wooed 
The Lady of the Land. 

I told her how he pined — and ah ! 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love, 
Interpreted my own. 

She listened with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face. 

But when I told flie cruel scorn 
That crazed that bold and lovely knight, 
And that he crossed the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night; 

38 



LOVE. 

That sometimes from the savage den, 
And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, 

There came, and looked him in the face, 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a fiend, 
This miserable Knight ! 

And that, unknowing what he did, 
He leaped amid a murderous band, 
And saved from outrage, worse than death, 
The Lady of the Land ; 

And how she wept, and clasped his knees; 
And how she tended him in vain, 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; 

And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness went away, 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay. 

His dying words — but when I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity. 
39 



LOVE. 

All impulses of soul and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve : 
The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
An undistinguishable throng, 
And gentle wishes long subdued, 
Subdued and cherished lono; ! 

She wept with pity and delight, 
She blushed with love, and virgin shame ; 
And like the murmur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved ; she stept aside, 

As conscious of my look she stept ; 

Then suddenly, with timorous eye, 

She fled to me and wept. 

She half inclosed me with her arms ; 
She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
And bending back her head, looked up, 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly love, and partly fear, 
And partly 'twas a bashful art, 
That T might rather feel, than see, 
The swelling of her heart. 

40 



LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. 

I calmed her fears, and she was calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

My bright and beauteous bride. 

Samuel Taylok Colekldge. 



LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe ; 
If thou'st be silent, I'se be glad ; 
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad. 
Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy, 
Thy father breides me great annoy. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! 

It grieves me sair to see thee iveipe. 

When he began to court my luve, 
And with his sugred words to muve, 
His faynings fals, and nattering cheire, 
To me that time did not appeire ; 
But now I see, most cruell hee 
Cares neither for my babe nor mee. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

V 41 



LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. 

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile ! 
And when thou wakest sweitly smile; 
But smile not, as thy father did, 
To cozen maids ; nay, God forbid ! 
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire 
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil arid sleipe! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

I canna chuse, but ever will 
Be luving to thy father stil : 
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, 
My luve with him maun stil abyde : 
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae, 
Mine hart can neir depart him frae. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

But doe not, doe not, prettie mine, 
To faynings fals thine hart incline : 
Be loyal to thy luver trew, 
And nevir change hir for a new ; 
If gude or faire, of hir have care, 
For women's banning's wonderous sair. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Bairne, sin thy cruel father's gane, 
Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine ; 
My babe and I'll together live ; 
Hell comfort me when cares doe grieve : 
42 



LITTLE AND GREAT. 

My babe and I right s'aft will ly, 
And quite forget man's cruelty. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth 
That ever kist a woman's mouth ! 
I wish all maids be warned by mee, 
Nevir to trust man's curtesy ; 
For if we doe but chance to bow, 
They'll use, us then they care not how. 

Baloiv, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Anonymous. 



LITTLE AND GREAT. 

A traveller, through a dusty road, 

Strewed acorns on the lea ; 
And one took root and sprouted up, 

And grew into a tree. 
Love sought its shade at evening time, 

To breathe his early vows; 
And Age was pleased, in heats of noon, 

To bask beneath its boughs. 
The dormouse loved its dano-ling twi<rs, 

The birds sweet music bore ; 
It stood a glory in its place, 

A blessing evermore. 
43 



LITTLE AND GREAT. 

A little spring had lost its way 

Amid the grass and fern ; 
A passing stranger scooped a well, 

Where weary men might turn. 
He walled it in, and hung with care 

A ladle at the brink : 
He thought not of the deed he did, 

But judged that Toil might drink. 
He passed again — and lo ! the well, 

By summers never dried, 
Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, 

And saved a life beside. 

A dreamer dropped a random thought ; 

Twas old — and yet 'twas new : 
A simple fancy of the brain, 

But strong in being true. 
It shone upon a genial mind, 

And lo ! its light became 
A lain]) of life, a beacon ray, 

A monitory flame. 
The thought was small — its issue great ; 

A watch-fire on the hill, 
It sheds its radiance far adown, 

And cheers the valley still. 

A nameless man, amid a crowd 
That thronged the daily mart, 

Let fall a word of hope and love, 
Unstudied, from the heart. 

44 



HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND? 

A whisper on the tumult thrown, 

A transitory breath, 
It raised a brother from the dust, 

It saved a soul from death. 
O germ ! fount ! O word of love ! 

O thought at random cast ! 
Ye were but little at the first, 

But mighty at the last ! 

Charles Mack ay 



HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND? 

How stands the glass around ? 
For shame ! ye take no care, my boys 

How stands the glass around ? 

Let mirth and wine abound. 

The trumpets sound ; 
The colors they are flying, boys. 

To fight, kill, or wound, 

May we still be found 
Content with our hard fare, my boys, 

On the cold ground. 

Why, soldiers, why 
Should we be melancholy, boys ? 
Why, soldiers, why ? 
Whose business 'tis to die ! 
What ! sighing ? fie ! 
to 



SONG. 

Don't fear ! drink on, be jolly, boys ! 

'Tis he, you, or I ! 

Cold, hot, wet or dry, 
We're always bound to follow, boys, 

And scorn to fly. 

'Tis but in vain 
(I mean not to upbraid you, boys,) 

'Tis but in vain 

For soldiers to complain ; 

Should next campaign 
Send us to Him who made us, boys, 

We're free from pain ; 

But if we remain, 
A bottle and a kind landlady 



Cure all again. 



Anonymous. 



SONG. 

Day, in melting purple dying ! 
Blossoms, all around me sicdiino; ! 
Fragrance, from the lilies straying ! 
Zephyr, with my ringlets playing ! 

Ye but waken my distress ; 

I am sick of loneliness. 
46 



SONG. 

Thou to whom I love to hearken, 
Come, ere night around me darken ! 
Though thy softness but deceive me, 
Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee ; 

Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent ; 

Let me think it innocent. 

Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure : 
All I ask is friendship's pleasure ; 
Let the shining ore lie darkling, 
Bring no gem in lustre sparkling : 

Gifts and gold are naught to me ; 

I would only look on thee ! 

Tell to thee the hi o;h- wrought feeling, 

Ecstasy but in revealing ; 

Paint to thee the deep sensation, 

Rapture in participation ; 

Yet but torture, if comprest 
In a lone, unfriended breast. 

Absent still ! Ah, come and bless me ! 

Let these eyes again caress thee. 

Once, in caution, I could fly thee ; 

Now I nothing could deny thee. 

In a look if death there be, 
Come — and I will gaze on thee ! 



Maria Brooks. 



47 




THE LAST LEAF. 



I saw him once before, 
As he passed by the door ; 

And again 
The pavement-stones resound 
As he totters o'er the ground 

With his cane. 



THE LAST LEAF. 

They say that in his prime, 
Ere the pruning-knife of Time 

Cut him clown, 
Not a better man was found 
By the crier on his round 

Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets, 
And lie looks at all he meets 

So forlorn ; 
And he shakes his feeble head, 
That it seems as if he said, 

" They are gone." 

The mossy marbles rest 

On the lips that he has pressed 

In their bloom ; 
And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 

On the tomb. 

My grandmamma has said, 
(Poor old lady ! she is dead 

Long ago,) 
That he had a Roman nose, 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow. 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 
Like a staff'; 

4i> 



TO ALTHEA— FROM PRISON. 

And a crook is in his back, 
And a melancholy crack 
In his laugh. 

I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 

At him here, 
But the old three-cornered hat, 
And the breeches — and all that, 

Are so queer ! 

And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring, 
Let them smile, as I do now, 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



TO ALTHEA — FROM PRISON. 

When Love, with unconfined wings, 

Hovers within my gates, 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at my grates ; 
When I lie tangled in her hair 

And fettered to her eye, 
50 



TO ALTHEA— FROM PRISON. 

The birds, that wanton in the air, 
Know no such liberty. 

When flowing cups run swiftly round, 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses bound, 

Our hearts with loyal flames ; 
When thirsty grief in wine we steep, 

When healths and draughts go free, 
Fishes, that tipple in the deep, 

Know no such liberty. 

When, like committed linnet, I 

With shriller throat shall sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty, 

And glories of my king; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great should be, 
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage ; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage. 
If I have freedom in my love, 

And in my soul am free, 
Angels alone, that soar above, 

Enjoy such liberty. 



Richard Lovelace. 



51 



TOM BOWLING. 

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 

The darling of our crew : 
No more he'll hear the tempest howling, 

For Death has broached him to. 
His form was of the manliest beauty ; 

His heart was kind and soft ; 
Faithful below, he did his duty ; 

But now he's gone aloft. 

Tom never from his word departed, 

His virtues were so rare ; 
His friends were many and true-hearted ; 

His Poll was kind and fair. 
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, 

Ah, many's the time and oft ! 
But mirth is turned to melancholy, 

For Tom is gone aloft. 

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, 

When He, who all commands, 
Shall give, to call life's crew together, 

The word to pipe all hands. 
Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, 

In vain Tom's life has doffed ; 
For, though his body's under hatches, 

His soul is gone aloft. 

Charles Dibdix. 
52 



LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI. 



O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms ! 

Alone, and palely loitering? 
The sedge has withered from the lake, 

And no birds sing. 

ii. 

what can ail thee, knight-at-arms ! 
So haggard and so woe-begone ? 

The squirrel's granary is fall, 
And the harvest done. 

in. 

1 see a lily on thy brow, 

With anguish moist and fever dew ; 
And on thy cheeks a fading rose 
Fast withereth too. 

IV. 

I met a lady in the mead, 
Full beautiful, a fairy's child ; 

Her hair was long, her foot was light, 
And her eyes were wild. 
« 53 



LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCL 



V. 

I made a garland for her head, 

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ; 

She looked at me as she did love, 
And made sweet moan. 

VI. 

I set her on my pacing steed, 

And nothing else saw all day long : 

For sidelong would she bend, and sing 
A fairy song. 

VII. 

She found me roots of relish sweet, 
And honey wild, and manna dew ; 

And sure in language strange she said, 
" I love thee true." 

VIII. 

She took me to her elfin grot, 

And there she wept, and sighed full sore ; 
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes 

With kisses four. 

IX. 

And there she lulled me asleep ; 

And there I dreamed — Ah ! woe betide! 
The latest dream I ever dreamed 

On the cold hill -side. 

54 



BABY'S SHOES. 



x. 



I saw pale kings and princes too, 

Pale warriors — death-pale were they all ; 

They cried, u La Belle Dame sans Merci 
Hath thee in thrall ! " 

XI. 

I saw their starved lips in the gloam, 

With horrid warning gaped wide ; 
And I awoke and found me here, 

On the cold hill-side. 

XII. 

And this is why I sojourn here, 

Alone and palely loitering, 
Though the sedge is withered from the lake, 

And no birds sing. 

John Keats. 



BABY'S SHOES. 

O those little, those little blue shoes, 
Those shoes that no little feet use ! 
O the price were high 
That those shoes would buy, 
Those little blue unused shoes ! 
55 



BABY'S SHOES. 

For they hold the small shape of feet 
That no more their mother's eyes meet, 

That, by God's good will, 

Years since grew still, 
And ceased from their totter so sweet. 

And O, since that baby slept, 

So hushed, how the mother has kept, 

With a tearful pleasure, 

That little dear treasure, 
And over them thought and wept ! 

For they mind her for evermore 
Of a patter along the floor ; 

And blue eyes she sees 

Look up from her knees, 
With the look that in life they wore. 

As they lie before her there, 
There babbles from chair to chair 

A little sweet face 

That's a gleam in the place, 
With its little gold curls of hair. 

Then O, wonder not that her heart 
From all else would rather part 

Than those tiny blue shoes 

That no little feet use, 
And whose sight makes such fond tears start ! 

William C. Bennett. 



56 




THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

One more unfortunate, 
Weary of breath, 
Rashly importunate, 
Gone to her death ! 



G* 



Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care ! 
Fashioned so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair ! 

57 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements, 
Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing ; 
Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing! 

Touch her not scornfully ! 
Think of her mournfully, 
Gently and humanly; 
Not of the stains of her : 
All that remains of her 
Now is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny, 
Rash and undutiful ; 
Past all dishonor, 
Death has left on her 
Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers, 
One of Eve's family, 
Wipe those poor lips of hers, 
Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses 
Escaped from the comb, 
Her fair auburn tresses, 
Whilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home ? 
58 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

Who was her father ? 

Who was her mother ? 

Had she a sister ? 

Had she a brother ? 

Or was there a dearer one 

■Still, and a nearer one 

Yet, than all other ? 

Alas, for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
Under the sun ! 
O, it was pitiful ! 
Near a whole city full, 
Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly 
Feelings had changed ; 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence ; 
Even God's providence 
Seeming estranged! 

Where the lamps quiver 

So far in the river, 

With many a light 

From window and casement, 

From garret to basement, 

She stood, with amazement, 

Houseless by night. 



59 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

The bleak wind of March 
Made her tremble and shiver ; 
But not the dark arch, 
Nor the black flowing river : 
Mad from life's history, 
Glad to death's mystery 
Swift to be hurled — 
Anywhere, anywhere 
Out of the world ! 

In she plunged boldly, 
No matter how coldly 
The rough river ran, 
Over the brink of it ! 
Picture it — think of it, 
Dissolute man ! 
Lave in it, drink of it 
Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care ! 
Fashioned so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair ! 

Ere her limbs, frigidly, 
Stiffen too rigidly, 
Decently, kindly, 
Smooth and compose them ; 
And her eyes, close them, 
Staring so blindly ! 



60 



THE HOLLY TREE. 

Dreadfully staring 
Through muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 
Fixed on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurred by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity 
Burning insanity 
Into her rest ! 
Cross her hands humbly, 
As if praying dumbly, 
Over her breast ! 

Owning her weakness, 
Her evil behavior, 
And leaving, with meekness, 
Her sins to her Saviour ! 



Thomas Hood. 



THE HOLLY TREE. 

O reader ! hast thou ever stood to see 

The holly tree? 
The eye that contemplates it well, perceives 

Its glossy leaves 
Ordered by an intelligence so wise 
As might confound the atheist's sophistries. 
01 



THE HOLLY THEE. 

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen 

Wrinkled and keen ; 
No grazing cattle, througli their prickly round, 

Can reach to wound; 
But as they grow where nothing is to fear, 
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. 

I love to view these things with curious eyes, 

And moralize ; 
And in this wisdom of the holly tree 

Can emblems see 
Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme, 
One which may profit in the after-time. 

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear 

Harsh and austere, 
To those who on my leisure would intrude 

Reserved and rude ; 
Gentle at home, amid my friends, I'd be, 
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. 

And should my youth, as youth is apt I know, 

Some harshness show, 
AH vain asperities I, day by day, 

Would wear away, 
Till the smooth temper of my age should be 
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. 

And as, when all the summer trees are seen 
So bright and green, 



62 



MY CHILD. 

The holly leaves their fadeless hues display 

Less bright than they ; 
But when the bare and wintry woods we see, 
What then so cheerful as the holly tree ? 

So, serious should my youth appear among 

The thoughtless throng ; 
So would I seem, amid the young and gay, 

More grave than they ; 
That in my age as cheerful I might be 
As the green winter of the holly tree. 

RO B K R T SOU T H E Y. 



MY CHILD. 



I cannot make him dead ! 

His fair sunshiny head 
Is ever bounding round my study chair ; 

Yet, when my eyes, now dim 

With tears, I turn to him, 
The vision vanishes — he is not there! 

I walk my parlor floor, 

And through the open door 
I hear a footfall on the chamber stair ; 

I'm stepping toward the hall 

To give the boy a call ; 
And then bethink me that — he is not there! 
63 



MY CHILD. 

I thread the crowded street ; 

A satchelled lad I meet, 
With the same beaming eyes and colored hair ; 

And, as he's running by, 

Follow him with my eye, 
Scarcely believing that — he is not there ! 

I know his face is hid 

Under the coffin lid; 
Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead fair. 

My hand that marble felt; 

O'er it in prayer I knelt ; 
Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there! 

I cannot make him dead ! 

When passing by the bed 
So long watched over with parental care, 

My spirit and my eye 

Seek him inquiringly, 
Before the thought comes that — he is not there! 

When, at the cool, gray break 

Of day, from sleep I wake, 
With my first breathing of the morning air 

My soul goes up, with joy, 

To Him who gave my boy ; 
Then comes the sad thought that — he is not there ! 

When at the day's calm close, 
Before we seek repose, 
I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, 

64 



MY CHILD 

Whate'er I may be saving, 
I am in spirit praying 
For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there ! 

Not there! — Where, then, is lie? 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to wear. 

The grave, that now doth press 

Upon that cast-off dress, 
Is but his wardrobe locked; — he is not there! 

He lives ! — In all the past 

He lives ; nor, to the last, 
Of seeing him again will I despair ; 

In dreams I see him now ; 

And, on his angel brow, 
I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!''' 

Yes, we all live to God ! 
Father, thy chastening rod 
So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, 
That in the spirit land, 
Meeting at thy right hand, 

it — 

JOIIX PlEKPOXT. 



IT NEVER COMES AGAIN. 

There are gains for all our losses, 

There are balms for all our pain : 
But when youth, the dream, departs, 
It takes something from our hearts, 
And it never comes again. 

We are stronger, and are better, 

Under manhood's sterner reign ; 
Still, we feel that something sweet 
Followed youth, with flying feet, 

And will never come again. 

Something beautiful is vanished, 

And we sigh for it in vain : 
We behold it everywhere, 
On the earth, and in the air, 

But it never comes again. 

Richard Hknry Stoddard. 



6G 




THE AGE OF WISDOM. 

Ho! pretty page, with the dimpled chin, 
That never has known the barber's shear 

All your wish is woman to win ; 

This is the way that boys begin : 
Wait till you come to forty year. 



Curly gold locks cover foolish brains ; 

Billing and cooing is all your cheer ; 
Sighing, and singing of midnight strains 
Under Bonnybell's window panes : 

Wait till you come to forty year. 

67 



THE AGE OF WISDOM. 

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass ; 

Grizzling hair the brain doth clear ; 
Then yon know a boy is an ass, 
Then you know the worth of a lass, 

Once you have come to forty year. 

Pledge me round ! I bid ye declare, 

All good fellows whose beards are gray : 

Did not the fairest of the fair 

Common grow and wearisome, ere 
Ever a month was past away ? 

The reddest lips that ever have kissed, 
The brightest eyes that ever have shone, 

May pray and whisper and we not list, 

Or look away and never be missed, 
Ere yet ever a month is gone. 

Gillian's dead ! God rest her bier : 
How I loved her twenty years syne ! 

Marian's married ! but I sit here, 

Alone and merry at forty year, 

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 

William Makepeace Thackeray, 



G8 



THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. 

We sat within tlie farm-house old, 

Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, 

Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, 
An easy entrance, night and day. 

Not far away we saw the port, 

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, 

The light-house, the dismantled fort, 
The wooden houses, quaint and brown. 

We sat and talked until the night, 
Descending, filled the little room ; 

Our faces faded from the sight, 
Our voices only broke the gloom. 

We spake of many a vanished scene, 
Of what we once had thought and said, 

Of what had been, and might have been, 
And who was changed, and who was dead ; 

And all that fills the hearts of friends, 
When first they feel, with secret pain, 

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, 
And never can be one again ; 

I GU 



THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD. 

The first slight swerving of the heart, 
That words are powerless to express, 

And leave it still unsaid in part, 
Or say it in too great excess. 

The very tones in which we spake 

Had something strange, I could but mark ; 

The leaves of memory seemed to make 
A mournful rustling in the dark. 

Oft died the words upon our lips, 

As suddenly, from out the fire 
Built of the wreck of stranded ships, 

The flames would leap, and then expire. 

And, as their splendor flashed and failed, 
We thought of wrecks upon the main ; 

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed 
And sent no answer back again. 

The windows, rattling in their frames, 
The ocean, roaring up the beach, 

The gusty blast, the bickering flames, 
All mingled vaguely in our speech ; 

Until they made themselves a part 
Of fancies floating through the brain : 

The long-lost ventures of the heart, 
That send no answers back again. 



7d 



ASK ME NO MORE. 

O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned! 

They were indeed too much akin : 
The drift-wood fire without that burned, 

The thoughts that burned and glowed within. 

Henry Wadswokth Longfellow 



ASK ME NO MORE. 

Ask me no more : the moon may draw the sea ; 

The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; 

But, O too fond! when have I answered thee? 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : what answer should I give ? 

I love not hollow cheek or faded eye ; 

Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die ! 
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are sealed ; 
I strove against the stream, and all in vain. 
Let the great river take me to the main. 
No more, dear love — for at a touch I yield; 
Ask me no more ! 

Alfred Tklnn vson. 

71 



THE BELFRY PIGEOiV. 

On the cross-beam under the Old South bell 
The nest of a pigeon is builded well. 
In summer and winter that bird is there, 
Out and in with the morning air. 
I love to see him track the street, 
With his wary eye and active feet ; 
And I often watch him as he springs, 
Circling the steeple with easy wings, 
Till across the dial his shade has passed, 
And the belfry edge is gained at last. 
'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, 
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; 
There's a human look in its swelling breast, 
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; 
And I often stop with the fear I feel, 
He runs so close to the rapid wheel. 

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell, 
Chime of the hour, or funeral knell, 
The dove in the belfry must hear it well. 
When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon, 
When the sexton cheerly rings for noon, 
When the clock strikes clear at morning light, 
When the child is waked with " nine at night," 
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, 
Filling the spirit with tones of prayer, 

72 



THE BELFRY PIGEON. 

Whatever tale in the bell is heard, 
He broods on his folded feet unstirred, 
Or, rising half in his rounded nest, 
He takes the time to smooth his breast ; 
Then drops again, with filmed eyes, 
And sleeps as the last vibration dies. 

Sweet bird ! I would that I could be 
A hermit in the crowd like thee ! 
With wings to fly to wood and glen, 
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ; 
And daily, with unwilling feet, 
I tread, like thee, the crowded street ; 
But, unlike me, when day is o'er, 
Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar ; 
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, 
Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, 
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. 

I would that, in such wings of gold, 
I could my weary heart upfold ; 
I would I could look down unmoved, 
(Unloving as I am unloved,) 
And while the world throngs on beneath, 
Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe ; 
And never sad with others' sadness, 
And never glad with others' gladness, 
Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime, 
And, lapped in quiet, bide my time. 

Nathaniel Parker WrLLis. 



73 



VULCAN, CONTRIVE ME SUCH A CUP. 

Vulcan, contrive me such a cup 

As Nestor used of old ; 
Show all thy skill to trim it up, 

Damask it round with gold. 

Make it so large that, filled with sack, 

Up to the swelling brim, 
Vast toasts in the delicious lake, 

Like ships at sea, may swim. 

Engrave not battle on his cheek : 
With war I've naught to do ; 

I'm none of those that took Maestrick, 
Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew. 

Let it no names of planets tell, 
Fixed stars or constellations ; 

For I am no Sir Sidrophel, 
Nor none of his relations. 

But carve thereon a spreading vine ; 

Then add two lovely boys ; 
Their limbs in am'rous folds entwine, 

The type of future joys. 

74 



JOHN ANDERSON. 

Cupid and Bacchus my saints are : 
May drink and love still reign ! 

With wine I wash away my care, 

And then to love again. 

Anackeon. (Greek.) 
Translation of the Karl of Rochester. 



JOHN ANDERSON. 

John Anderson, my jo John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonny brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 

Your locks are like the snow ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo John, 

We clamb the hill thegither, 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither ; 
Now we maun totter doun, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

Jul in Anderson, my jo. 

Rohkrt Bukn: 



JEANIE MORRISON. 

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 

Through mony a weary way ; 
But never, never can forget 

The luve o' life's young day ! 
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en 

May weel be black gin Yule ; 
But blacker fa' awaits the heart 

Where first fond luve grows cule. 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

The thochts o' bygane years 
Still fling their shadows ower my path, 

And blind my een wi' tears : 
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, 

And sair and sick I pine, 
As memory idly summons up 

The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 

'Twas then we twa did part ; 
Sweet time — sad time! twa baims at scule, 

Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 

7G 



JEAN1E MORRISON. 

Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, 

To leir ilk ither lear ; 
And tones and looks and smiles were shed, 
Remembered evermair. 

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, 

When sittin' on that bink, 
Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, 

What our wee heads could think. 
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, 

Wi' ae buik on our knee, 
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 

My lesson was in thee. 

O, mind ye how we hung our heads, 

How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 
Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said 

We cleeked thegither hame ? 
And mind ye o' the Saturdays, 

(The scule then skail't at noon,) 
When we ran off to speel the braes, 

The broomy braes o' June ? 

My head rins round and round about, 

My heart flows like a sea, 
As ane by ane the thochts rush back 

O' scule-time and o' thee. 
O mornin' life ! O mornin' luve ! 

O lichtsome days and lang, 
When hinnied hopes around our hearts 

Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 

k 77 



JEANIE MORRISON. 

O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 
The deavin' dinsome toun, 

To wander by the green burnside, 
And hear its waters croon ? 




JEANiE MORRISON. 

The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, 
The flowers burst round our feet, 

And in the gloamin' o' the wood 
The throssil wlmsslit sweet ; 

The throssil wlmsslit in the wood, 

The burn sang to the trees, 
And we, with Nature's heart in tune, 

Concerted harmonies ; 
And on the knowe abune the burn 

For hours thegither sat 
In the silentness o' joy, till baith 

Wi' very gladness grat. 

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Tears trinkled doun your cheek 
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet mine 

Had ony power to speak ! 
That was a time, a blessed time, 

When hearts were fresh and young, 
When freely gushed all feelings forth, 

Unsyllabled — unsung ! 

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 

Gin I hae been to thee 
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts 

As ye hae been to me ? 
O, tell me gin their music fills 

Thine ear as it does mine ! 
O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit 

Wi' dreamino;s o' lano-svne ? 

79 



HESTER. 

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 

I've borne a weary lot ; 
But in my wanderings, far or near, 

Ye never were forgot. 
The fount that first burst frae this heart 

Still travels on its way ; 
And channels deeper, as it rins, 

The luve o' life's young day. 

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Since we were sindered young 
I've never seen your face, nor heard 

The music o' your tongue ; 
But I could hug all wretchedness, 

And happy could I dee, 
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 

O' bygane days and me ! 

Wi lli am Moth krwell. 



HESTER. 



When maidens such as Hester die, 
Their place ye may not well supply, 
Though ye among a thousand try, 
With vain endeavor. 

A month or more hath she been dead, 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the wormy bed 
And her, together. 

80 



HESTER. 

A springy motion in her gait, 
A rising step, did indicate 
Of pride and joy no common rate, 
That flushed her spirit ; 

I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call : — if 'twas not pride, 
It was a joy to that allied, 
She did inherit. 

Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
Which doth the human feeling cool ; 
But she was trained in Nature's school ; 
Nature had blessed her. 

A waking eye, a prying mind, 
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; 
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind ; 
Ye could not Hester. 

My sprightly neighbor, gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore ! 
Shall we not meet, as heretofore, 
Some summer morning, 

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath struck a bliss upon the day : 
A bliss that would not go away, 
A sweet forewarning? 

Chakles Lamb. 



81 



THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES. 

To make my lady's obsequies, 

My love a minster wrought ; 
And, in the chantry, service there 

Was sung by doleful thought. 
The tapers were of burning sighs, 

That light and odor gave ; 
And sorrows, painted o'er with tears, 

Enlumined her grave ; 
And round about, in quaintest guise, 
Was carved : " Within this tomb there lies 
The fairest thing in mortal eyes." 

Above her lieth spread a tomb, 

Of gold and sapphires blue : 
The gold doth show her blessedness, 

The sapphires mark her true ; 
For blessedness and truth in her 

Were livelily portrayed, 
When gracious God with both His hands 

Her goodly substance made. 
He framed her in such wondrous wise, 
She was, to speak without disguise, 
The fairest thing in mortal eyes. 
82 



A DEATH-BED. 

No more, no more ! my heart doth faint 

When I the life recall 
Of her who lived so free from taint, 

So virtuous deemed by all, 
That in herself was so complete, 

I think that she was ta'en 
By God to deck His paradise, 

And with his saints to reign ; 
Whom, while on earth, each one did prize 
The fairest thing in mortal eyes. 

But naught our tears avail, or cries : 
All soon or late in death shall sleep ; 
Nor living wight long time may keep 

The fairest thing in mortal eyes. 

Charles, Duke of Orleans. (French.) 



Translation of Henry Francis Cary 



A DEATH-BED. 

Her suffering ended with the day ; 

Yet lived she at its close, 
And breathed the long, long night away, 

In statue-like repose. 

But when the sun, in all his state, 

Illumed the eastern skies, 
She passed through Glory's morning-gate, 

And walked in Paradise ! 

James Aldrich, 

83 



ANNABEL LEE. 

It was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden lived, whom you may know, 

By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 

Than to love, and be loved by, me. 

I was a child, and she was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea ; 
But we loved with a love that was more than love, 

I and my Annabel Lee : 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee; 
So that her high-born kinsmen came, 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not so happy in heaven, 

Went envying her and me. 
Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know), 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 
84 



EDWARD, EDWARD. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 

Of those who were older than we, 

Of many far wiser than we ; 
And neither the angels in heaven above, 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, 
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the side 
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride, 

In her sepulchre there by the sea, 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

Edgar Allan Pok. 



EDWARD, EDW^ARD. 

" Quhy dois zour brand sae drap wi' bluid, 

Edward, Edward ? 
Quhy dois zour brand sae drap wi' bluid, 

And quhy sae sad gang zee O ? " 
"O I hae killed my hauke sae guid, 

Mither, mither : 
O I hae killed my hauke sae guid, 

And I had nae mair bot hee O." 
85 



EDWARD, EDWARD. 

" Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, 

Edward, Edward 
Zour haukis bluid was nevir sae reid — 

My deir son, I tell zee O." 
u O I hae killed my reid-roan steid, 

Mither, mither : 
O I hae killed my reid-roan steid, 

That was sae fair and free O." 




" Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair, 

Edward, Edward 
Zour steid was auld, and ze hae gat mair — 
Sum other dule ze drie 0." 
86 



EDWARD, EDWARD. 

"01 hae killed my fader deir, 

Mither, mither : 

() I hae killed my fader deir — 

Alas ! and wae is mee 

" And quhatten penance wul ze drie for that, 

Edward, Edward ? 
Quhatten penance wul ze drie for that ? 
My deir son, now tell mee O." 
" He set my feit in zonder boat, 

Mither, mither : 
He set my feit in zonder boat, 

And He fare ovir the sea O." 

" And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', 

Edward, Edward ? 
And quhat wul ze doe wi' zour towirs and zour ha', 

That were sae fair to see O ? " 
" He let tham stand til they doun fa' ; 

Mither, mither : 
He let tham stand til they doun fa', 

For here nevir mair maun I bee O." 

"And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, 

Edward, Edward ? 
And quhat wul ze leive to zour bairns and zour wife, 

Quhan ze gang ovir the sea O ? " 
" The warldis room — let tham beg throw life, 

Mither, mither : 
The warldis room — let tham beg throw life ; 
For tham nevir mair wul I see O." 
87 



THE BUCKET. 

" And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir, 

Edward, Edward ? 
And quhat wul ze leive to zour ain mither deir ? 

My deir son, now tell mee O." 
" The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir, 

Mither, mither : 
The curse of hell frae me sail ze beir — 
Sic counseils ze gave to mee O." 

Anonymous. 



THE BUCKET. 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, 

When fond recollection presents them to view ! 

The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, 

And every loved spot which my infancy knew ! 

The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it ; 

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; 

The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, 

And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well : 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure ; 
For often at noon, when returned from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, 
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ! 

88 



TO CELIA. 

Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well : 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. 

Hoav sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it, 

As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! 

Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 

The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. 

And now, far removed from the loved habitation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 

As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 

And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well: 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well. 

Samuel Wood worth, 



TO CELIA. 

Drink to me only with thine eyes, 

And 1 will pledge with mine ; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup, 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine ; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED. 

I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honoring thee, 
As giving it a hope that there 

It could not withered be. 
But thou thereon did'st only breathe, 

And sent'st it back to me ; 
Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear, 

Not of itself, but thee. 

Philostratus. (Greek.) 



Translation of Bkn Joason. 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED 

When we two parted 

In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted, 

To sever for years, 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss ; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sank chill on my brow ; 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken, 

And light is thy fame ; 
I hear thy name spoken, 

And share in its shame. 
90 



TOO LATE. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear ; 
A shudder comes o'er me : 

Why wert thou so d?ar ? 
They know not I knew thee, 

Who knew thee too well. 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met ; 

In silence I grieve, 
That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years, 
How should I greet thee ? 

In silence and tears. 



Lord Byron 



TOO LATE. 

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, 

In the old likeness that I knew, 
I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas : 

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ! 

Never a scornful word should grieve ye : 
I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do — 

Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ! 
91 



CHANGES. 

! to call back the days that are not ! 

My eyes were blinded, your words were few. 
Do you know the truth now, up in Heaven, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ? 

1 never was worthy of you, Douglas, 
Not half worthy the like of you ! 

Now all men beside seem to me like shadows ; 
I love you, Douglas, tender and true. 

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas ; 

Drop forgiveness from Heaven like dew, 
As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas : 

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

Dinah Makia Muloch 



CHANGES. 



Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed. 
Time rules us all. And Life, indeed, is not 
The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead. 
And then, we women cannot choose our lot. 

Much must be borne which it is hard to bear ; 
Much given away which it were sweet to keep. 
God help us all ! who need, indeed, His care. 
And yet, I know the Shepherd loves his sheep. 

92 



CHANGES. 

My little boy begins to babble now 
Upon my knee his earliest infant prayer. 
He has his father's eager eyes, I know ; 
And, they say, too, his mothei's sunny hair. 

But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee, 
And I can feel his light breath come and go, 
I think of one (Heaven help and pity me !) 
Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago : 

Who might have been ... ah what, I dare not think ! 
We are all changed. God judges for us best. 
God help us do our duty, and not shrink, 
And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest ! 

But blame us women not, if some appear 
Too cold at times ; and some too gay and light. 
Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear. 
Who knows the past ? and who can judge us right ? 

Ah! were we judged by what we might have been, 
And not by what we are — too apt to fall ! 
My little child — he sleeps and smiles between 
These thoughts and me. In heaven we shall know all ! 

Robert Bulwer Lyttox. 



9o 



LOSS AND GAIN. 

When the baby died, we said, 
With a sudden, secret dread, 
" Death, be merciful, and pass : 
Leave the other ! " but, alas ! 

While we watched he waited there, 
One foot on the golden stair, 
One hand beckoning at the gate, 
Till the home was desolate. 

Friends say, " It is better so, 
Clothed in innocence to go ; " 
Say, to ease the parting pain, 
That " your loss is but their gain." 

Ah ! the parents think of this ! 
But remember more the kiss 
From the little rose-red lips ; 
And the print of finger-tips, 

Left upon a broken toy, 
Will remind them how the boy 
And his sister charmed the days 
With their pretty, winsome ways. 

94 



THOSE EVENING BELLS. 

Only Time can give relief 
To the weary, lonesome grief; 
God's sweet minister of pain 
Then shall sing of loss and gain. 

Nora Perky 



THOSE EVENING BELLS. 

Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! 
How many a tale their music tells, 
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 
When last I heard their soothing chime ! 

Those joyous hours are passed away ; 
And many a heart that then was gay, 
Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 
And hears no more those evening bells. 

And so 'twill be when I am gone ; 
That tuneful peal will still ring on ; 
While other bards shall walk these dells, 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. 

Thomas Moore. 



95 



SONG. 

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, 
When June is past, the fading rose ; 
For, in your beauty's orient deep, 
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 

Ask me no more whither do stray 
The golden atoms of the day ; 
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
Those powders to enrich your hair. 

Ask me no more whither doth haste 
The nightingale when May is past ; 
For in your sweet, dividing throat 
She winters, and keeps warm her note. 

Ask me no more where those stars light 
That downward fall in dead of night ; 
For in your eyes they sit, and there 
Fixed become, as in their sphere. 

Ask me no more if east or west 
The Phoenix builds her spicy nest ; 
For unto you at last she flies, 
And in your fragrant bosom dies. 

Thomas Carew. 
96 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD 

At Diiffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be ; 

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime : 

So Joris broke silence with " Yet there is time ! " 

At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun, 

And against him the cattle stood black, every one, 

To stare through the mist at us galloping past ; 

And I saw my stout galloper, Roland, at last, 

With resolute shoulders, each butting away 

The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray ; 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track ; 
And one eye's black intelligence — ever that glance 
O'er its white edge at me, its own master, askance ; 
And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon 
His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. 

By Hasselt Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris, " Stay spur ! 
Your Roos galloped bravely — the fault's not in her ; 
We'll remember at Aix " — for one heard the quick wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees, 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, 
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; 
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh ; 
'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff: 
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, 
And " Gallop ! " gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight I 

98 



NEWS FROM GHENT TO A1X. 

" How they'll greet us ! " — and all in a moment his roan, 
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; 
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, 

Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 

Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 

Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer, 

Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good ; 

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

And all I remember is friends flocking round, 
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground ; 
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, 
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent 

Robert Browning. 




YOUTH AND AGE. 

Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, 
Where Hope clung feeding like a bee ! 
Both were mine ; Life went a-Maying 
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 

When I was young. 

When I was young ! Ah, woful When ! 
Ah, for the change 'twixt Now and Then ! 
This breathing house, not built with hands, 
This body, that does me grievous wrong, 
O'er airy cliffs and glittering sands 
How lightly then it flashed along ! 
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, 
On winding lakes and rivers wide, 
That ask no aid of sail or oar, 
That fear no spite of wind or tide. 
Naught cared this body foi wind or weather, 
When Youth and I lived in't together. 

Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; 
Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
O the joys that came down shower-like, 
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 
Ere I was old ! 
100 



YOUTH AND AGE. 

Ere I was old ! Ah, woful Ere ! 
Which tells me Youth's no longer here. 

Youth ! For years so many and sweet 
,r Tis known that thou and I were one ; 
I'll think it but a fond conceit; 

It cannot be that thou art gone ! 
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled, 
And thou wert aye a masker bold. 
What strange disguise hast now put on, 
To make believe that thou art gone ? 

1 see these locks in silvery slips, 
This drooping gait, this altered size ; 
But springtide blossoms on thy lips, 
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! 
Life is but thought ; so think I will 
That Youth and I are house-mates still. 
Dew-drops are the gems of morning, 
But the tears of mournful eve. 

Where no hope is, life's a warning 
That only serves to make us grieve, 

When we are old : 
That only serves to make us grieve 
With oft and tedious taking leave ; 
Like some poor nigh-related guest 
That may not rudely be dismissed, 
Yet hath outstayed his welcome while, 
And tells the jest without the smile. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



101 



TO MARY. 

The twentieth year is well-nigh past 
Since first our sky was overcast ; 
Ah, would that this might he the last ! 

My Mary! 

Thy spirits have a fainter flow ; 
I see thee daily weaker grow : 
'Twas my distress that brought thee low, 

My Mary ! 

Thy needles, once a shining store, 
For my sake restless heretofore, 
Now rust disused, and shine no more, 

My Mary ! 

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
The same kind office for me still, 
Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 

My Man- ! 

But well thou playedst the housewife's part ; 
And all thy threads, with magic art, 
Have wound themselves about this heart, 

My Mary ! 
102 



TO MARY. 

Thy indistinct expressions seem 
Like language uttered in a dream ; 
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, 

My Mary ! 

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
Are still more lovely in my sight 
Than golden beams of orient light, 

My Mary! 

For, could I view nor them nor thee, 
What sight worth seeing could I see? 
The sun would rise in A T ain for me, 

My Mary ! 

Partakers of thy sad decline, 
Thy hands their little force resign ; 
Yet, gently pressed, press gently mine, 

My Mary! 

Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, 
That now at every step thou movest 
Upheld by two; yet still thou lovest, 

My Mary! 

And still to love, though pressed Avith ill, 
In wintry age to feel no chill, 
With me is to be lovely still, 

My Mary! 

But ah ! by constant heed I know 
How oft the sadness that I show 
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, 

My Mary ! 

103 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 

And should my future lot be east 
With much resemblance of the past, 
Thy worn-out heart will break at last, 

My Mary ! 

William Cowper. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 

It is the miller's daughter, 

And she is grown so dear, so dear, 

That I would be the jewel 
That trembles at her ear ; 

For, hid in ringlets day and night, 

I'd touch her neck, so warm and white. 

And I would be the girdle 

About her dainty, dainty waist, 
And her heart would beat against me 

In sorrow and in rest ; 
And I should know if it beat right, 
I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace, 

And all day long to fall and rise 
Upon her balmy bosom 

With her laughter or her sighs ; 
And I would lie so light, so light, 
I scarce should be unclasped at night. 

Alfred Tennyson. 
104 



THE SHEPHERD'S SON. 

The go wan glitters on the sward, 
The lavrock's in the sky, 

And Colley on my plaid keeps ward, 
And time is passing by. 

no ! sad and slow ! 

1 hear nae welcome sound ; 
The shadow of our trysting bush, 

It wears sae slowly round. 

My sheep-bell tinkles from the west, 

My lambs are bleating near ; 
But still the sound that I lo'e best 

Alack ! I canna hear. 

O no ! sad and slow ! 

The shadow lingers still, 
And like a lanely ghaist I stand, 

And croon upon the hill. 

I hear below the water roar, 

The mill with clacking din ; 
And Lucky scolding frae her door, 

To bring the bairnies in. 

O no! sad and slow ! 

These are nae sounds for me ; 
The shadow of our trysting bush, 

It creeps sae drearilie. 

n '](»;. 



THE SHEPHERD'S SON. 

I coft yestreen frae chapman Tarn 

A snood o' bonnie bine, 
And promised, when onr try sting cam, 

To tie it round her brow. 

O no ! sad and slow ! 

The time it winna pass; 
The shadow of that weaiy thorn 

Is tethered on the grass. 

O now I see her on the way ! 

She's past the witches' knowe ; 
She's climbing up the brownie's brae : 

My heart is in a lowe ! 

O no ! 'tis not so ! 

'Tis glaumrie I hae seen ; 
The shadow of the hawthorn bush 

Will move nae mair till e'en. 

My book of grace I'll try to read, 

Though conned wi' little skill ; 
When Colley barks I'll raise my head, 

And find her on the hill. 

O no ! sad and slow ! 

The time will ne'er be gane ; 
The shadow of the try sting bush 

Is fixed like ony stane. 

Joanna Baillie. 



106 



THE LORELEI. 

I know not what it presages, 
This heart with sadness fraught : 

'Tis a tale of the olden ages, 
That will not from my thought. 

The air grows cool, and darkles ; 

The Rhine flows calmly on ; 
The mountain summit sparkles 

In the light of the setting sun. 

There sits, in soft reclining, 
A maiden wondrous fair, 

With golden raiment shining, 
And combing her golden hair. 

With a comb of gold she combs it ; 

And combing, low singeth she 
A song of a strange, sweet sadness, 

A wonderful melody. 

The sailor shudders, as o'er him 
The strain comes floating by ; 

He sees not the cliffs before him, 
He only looks on high. 

* li>7 



WITHOUT AND WITIITN. 

All ! round him the dark waves, flinging 

Their arms, draw him slowly down ; 
And this, with her wild, sweet singing, 
The Lorelei has done. 

Heinrich Heine. (German) 
Translation of Chkistomier Peahse Ckanqti. 




WITHOUT AND WITHIN. 

My coachman, in the moonlight there, 
Looks through the side-light of the door; 

I hear him with his brethren swear, 
As I could do, — but only more. 

108 



WITHOUT AND WITHIN. 

Flattening his nose against the pane, 
He envies me my brilliant lot, 

Breathes on his aching fists in vain, 
And dooms me to a place more hot. 

He sees me to the supper go, 

A silken wonder by my side, 
Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row 

Of flounces, for the door too wide. 

He thinks how happy is my arm, 

'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load, 

And wishes me some dreadful harm, 
Hearing the merry corks explode. 

Meanwhile I inly curse the bore 
Of hunting still the same old coon, 

And envy him, outside the door, 
In golden quiets of the moon. 

The winter wind is not so cold 

As the bright smiles he sees me win, 

Nor the host's oldest wine so old 
As our poor gabble — watery, thin. 

I envy him the ungyved prance 

By which his freezing feet he warms, 

And drag my lady's-chains and dance, 
The galley-slave of dreary forms. 
109 



SIR PATRICK SPENS. 

O, could he have my share of din, 

And I his quiet! — past a doubt 
'Twould still be one man bored within, 

And just another bored without. 

James Russell Lowell; 




SIR PATRICK SPENS. 



The king sits in Dunfermline town,, 
Drinking; the blude-red wine : 

" O where will I get a skeely skipper, 
To sail this new ship o' mine ? " 
110 



SIR PATRICK SPENS. 

O up and spak an eldern knight, 

Sat at the king's right knee : 
" Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor 

That ever sailed the sea." 

Our king; has written a braid letter. 

And sealed it wi' his hand, 
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 

Was walking on the sand. 

" To Noroway, to Noroway, 

To Noroway o'er the faem ! 
The king's daughter of Noroway, 

'Tis thou maun bring her hame." 

The first word that Sir Patrick read, 

Sae loud, loud laughed he ; 
The neist word that Sir Patrick read, 

The tear blindit his e'e. 

" O ! wha is this has done this deed, 

And tauld the king o' me, 
To send us out at this time o' the year. 

To sail upon the sea ? 

"Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, 

Our ship maun sail the faem : 
The king's daughter of Noroway, 

'Tis we maun fetch her hame." 
in 



SIR PATRICK SPENS. 

They hoysed their sails on.Monenday morn, 

Wi' a' the speed they may ; 
They hae landed in Noroway 

Upon a Wodensday. 

They hadna been a week, a week, 

In Noroway bat twae, 
When that the lords o' Noroway 

Began aloud to say : 

" Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's gowd, 

And a' our queenis fee." 
" Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud ! 

Fu' loud I hear ye lie ! 

" For I hae brought as mickle white monie 

As gane my men and me; 
And I hae brought a half-fou o' gude red gowd 

Out owre the sea wi' me. 

" Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a' ! 

Our gude ship sails the morn." 
" Now, ever alake ! my master dear ; 

I fear a deadly storm ! 

" I saw the new moon, late yestreen, 

Wi' the auld moon in her arm ; 
And if we gang to sea, master, 

I fear we'll come to harm." 
112 



SIR PATRICK SPENS. 

They hadna sailed a league, a league, 

A league, but barely three, 
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, 

And cmrlv crew the sea. 

The ankers brak and the topmasts lap, 

It was sic a deadly storm ; 
And the waves cam owre the broken ship 

Till a' her sides were torn. 



44 O where will I get a guide sailor 
To tak my helm in hand, 

Till I gae up to the tall topmast, 
To see if I can spy land ? " 



44 O here am I, a sailor glide, 

To tak the helm in hand, 
Till you gae up to the tall topmast ; 

But I fear ye'll ne'er spy land." 

He hadna gane a step, a step, 

A step, but barely ane, 
When a boult flew out of our goodly shi]i 

And the saut sea it cam in. 



44 Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, 

Anither o' the twine, 
And wap them into our ship's side, 

And letna the sea come in." 
o 113 



SIR PATRICK SPENS. 

They fetched a web o' the silken claith, 

Anither o' the twine, 
And they wapped them into that gnde ship's side; 

But still the sea cam in. 

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords, 

To weet their milk-white hands ! 
But lang or a' the play was played 

They wat their gowden bands. 

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords 

To weet their cork-heeled shoon ! 
But lang or a' the play was played, 

They wat their hats aboon. 

And mony was the feather-bed 

That floated on the faem ; 
And mony was the gude lord's son 

That never mair cam hame. 

The ladyes wrang their fingers white, 

The maidens tore their hair : 
A' for the sake of their true loves, 

For them they'll see nae mair. 

O lang, lang may the ladyes sit, 

Wi' their fans in their hand, 
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 

Come sailing to the strand ! 
114 



AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. 

And lang, lang may the maidens sit, 
Wi' their gowd kaims in their hair, 

A' waiting for their ain dear loves; 
For them they'll see nae mair. 

Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour 

'Tis fifty fathom deep, 

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, 

Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 

Anonymous. 



AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. 

How sweet it were, if without feeble fright, 

Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, 

An angel came to us, and we could bear 

To see him issue from the silent air 

At evening in our room, and bend on ours 

His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers 

News of dear friends, and children who have never 

Been dead indeed — as we shall know forever. 

Alas ! we think not what we daily see 

About our hearths — angels, that are to be, 

Or may be if they will, and we prepare 

Their souls and ours to meet in happy air : 

A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings 

In unison with ours, breeding its future wings. 

Leigh Hunt 

115 




THE MURDERED TRAVELLER, 



When spring, to woods and wastes around. 

Brought bloom and joy again, 
The murdered traveller's bones were found, 

Far down a narrow glen. 
116 



THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. 

The fragrant birch, above him, hung 

Her tassels in the sky ; 
And many a vernal blossom sprung, 

And nodded careless by. 

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought 
His hanging nest o'erhead ; 

And fearless, near the fatal spot, 
Her young the partridge led. 

But there was weeping far away, 

And gentle eyes, for him, 
With watching many an anxious day, 

Were sorrowful and dim. 



They little knew, who loved him so, 

The fearful death he met, 
When shouting o'er the desert snow, 

Unarmed and hard beset ; 

Nor how, when round the frosty pole 

The northern dawn was red, 
The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole 

To banquet on the dead ; 

Nor how, when strangers found his bones, 
They dressed the hasty bier, , 

And marked his grave with nameless stones, 
Unmoistened by a tear. 

P 117 



LOVE. 

But long they looked, and feared, and wept, 

Within his distant home; 
And dreamed, and started as they slept, 

For joy that he was come. 

Long, long they looked — but never spied 

His welcome step again, 
Nor knew the fearful death he died, 

Far down that narrow glen. 

William Cullkn Biiyant 



LOVE. 



He stood beside a cottage lone, 

And listened to a lute, 
One summer eve, when the breeze was gone, 

And the nightingale was mute. 
The moon was watching on the hill ; 
The stream was staid, and the maples still, 

To hear a lover's suit, 
That, half a vow, and half a prayer, 
Spoke less of hope than of despair, 
And rose into the calm, soft air, 

As sweet and low, 

As he had heard — O, woe! O, woe! 

The flutes of angels, long ago ! 

44 By every hope that earthward clings, 
By faith that mounts on angel wings, 
118 



LOVE. 

By dreams that make night-shadoAvs bright, 
And truths that turn our day to night, 
By childhood's smile, and manhood's tear, 
By pleasure's day, and sorrow's year, 
By all the strains that fancy sings, 
And pangs that time so surely brings, 
For joy or grief, for hope or fear, 
For all hereafter as for here, 
In peace or strife, in storm or shine, 
My soul is wedded unto thine ! " 

And for its soft and sole reply, 
A murmur, and a sweet, low sigh, 

But not a spoken word ; 
And yet they made the waters start 

Into his eyes who heard, 
For they told of a most loving heart, 

In a voice like that of a bird ; 
Of a heart that loved though it loved in vain, 
A grieving, and yet not a pain : 

A love that took an early root 

And had an early doom, 
Like trees that never grow to fruit, 

And early shed their bloom ; 
Of vanished hopes and happy smiles, 

All lost for evermore, 
Like ships that sailed for sunny isles, 

But never came to shore ! 

Thomas Kibble Hervey 



119 



ANGELS BY THE DOOR. 

O ! there be angels e verm wore, 
A-passen onward by the door, 
A-zent to teake our jays, or come 
To bring us zome — O Mearianne. 
Though doors be shut, an' bars be stout, 
Noo bolted door can keep em out f 
But they wull leave us everything 
They have to bring — My Mearianne. 

An' zoo the daes a-stealen by, 

Wi' zuns a-riden droo the sky, 

Do bring us things to leave us sad, 

Or meake us glad — O Mearianne. 

The dae that's mild, the dae that's stern, 

Do teake, in stillness, each his turn ; 

An' evils at their wo'st mid mend, 

Or even end — My Mearianne. 

But still, if we can only beare, 
Wi' faith an' love, our pain an' ceare, 
We shan't vind missen jay a-lost, 
Though we be crost — O Mearianne; 
But all a-car'd to heaven, an' stowed, 
Where we can't weaste em on the road, 
120 



COME BACK! 

As we do wander to an' fro, 
Down here below — My Mearianne. 

But there be jays I'd soonest choose 
To keep, vrom they that I must lose : 
Thy worksome hands to help my twile, 
Thy cheerful smile — O Mearianne; 
The Zunday bells o' yander tower, 
The moonlight sheades o' my own bower, 
An' rest avore our vier-zide, 
At evenen-tide — My Mearianne. 



William Barnes. 



COME BACK! 



Come from your long, long roving, 
On the sea so wild and rough ! 

Come to me tender and loving, 
And I shall be blessed enough ! 



Where your sails have been unfurling, 
What winds have blown on your brow, 

I know not, and ask not, my darling, 
So that you come to me now. 

Sorrowful, sinful, and lonely, 

Poor and despised though you be, 

All are as nothing, if only 

You turn from the tempter to me. 

Q 121 



EPITHALAMIUM. 



Of men though you be unforgiven, 
Though priest be unable to shrive, 

I'll pray till I weary all heaven, 
If only you'll come back alive. 



Anonymous. 



EPITHALAMIUM. 

I saw two clouds at morning, 

Tinged by the rising sun, 
And in the dawn they floated on, 

And mingled into one : 
I thought that morning cloud was blest, 
It moved so sweetly to the west. 

I saw two summer currents 

Flow smoothly to their meeting, 
And join their course with silent force, 

In peace each other greeting ; 
Calm was their course through banks of green, 
While dimpling eddies played between. 

Such be your gentle motion, 

Till life's last pulse shall beat ; 
Like Summer's beam, and Summer's stream, 

Float on in joy, to meet 
A calmer sea, where storms shall cease, 
A purer sky, where all is peace. 

John Gardner Calkins Brainard. 
122 



SONG TO MAY. 

May ! queen of blossoms, 
And fulfilling flowers, 

With what pretty music 

Shall we charm the hours? 

Wilt thou have pipe and reed, 

Blown in the open mead ? 

Or to the lute give heed, 
In the green bowers ? 

Thou hast no need of us, 

Or pipe or wire, 
That hast the golden bee 

Ripened with fire ; 
And many thousand more 
Songsters, that thee adore, 
Filling earth's grassy floor 

With new desire. 

Thou hast thy mighty herds, 

Tame, and free livers ; 
Doubt not, thy music too 

In the deep rivers ; 
And the whole plumy flight, 
Warbling the day and night : 
Up at the gates of light, 
See, the lark quivers ! 
123 



THE RHODORA. 

When with the jacinth 

Coy fountains are tressed, 
And for the mournful bird 

Greenwoods are dressed, 
That did for Tereus pine, 
Then shall our songs be thine, 
To whom our hearts incline : 

May, be thou blessed ! 

Lord Tiiurlow. 



THE RHODORA. 

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, 
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, 
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, 
To please the desert and the sluggish brook : 
The purple petals, fallen in the pool, 

Made the black waters with their beauty gay ; 
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, 

And court the flower that cheapens his array. 
Rhodora ! if the sages ask thee why 
This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, 
Dear, tell them that if eyes were made for seeing, 
Then beauty is its own excuse for being. 

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose ! 
I never thought to ask, I never knew ; 

But in my simple ignorance suppose 
The selfsame Power that brought me there, brought you, 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
124 



THE NIGHT PIECE. 

Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee, 
The shooting-starres attend thee ; 

And the elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will-o'-th'-Wispe mislight thee, 
Nor snake nor slow-worme bite thee ; 

But on thy way, 

Not making stay, 
Since ghost there's none t' affright thee. 

Let not the darke thee cumber ; 

What though the moon does slumber ? 
The stars of the night 
Will lend thee their light, 

Like tapers cleare, without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me ; 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
My soule I'll pour into thee ! 



Robert Herrick. 



Q * 125 




HANNAH BINDING SHOES. 



Poor lone Hannah, 
Sitting at the window, binding shoes ! 

Faded, wrinkled, 
Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse ! 
Bright-eyed beauty once was she, 
When the bloom was on the tree. 
Spring and Winter 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 
126 



HANNAH BINDING SHOES. 

Not a neighbor 
Passing nod or answer will refuse 

To her whisper : 
" Is there from the fishers any news ? " 
O, her heart's adrift with one 
On an endless voyage gone ! 
Night and morning 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 

Fair young Hannah, 
Ben, the sun-burnt fisher, gayly woos ; 

Hale and clever, 
For a willing heart and hand he sues. 
May-day skies are all a-glow, 
And the waves are laughing so ! 
For her wedding 
Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. 

May is passing ; 
'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos. 

Hannah shudders ; 
For the mild southwester mischief brews. 
Round the rocks of Marblehead, 
Outward bound, a schooner sped. 
Silent, lonesome, 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 

'Tis November ; 
Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews. 

From Newfoundland 
Not a sail returning will she lose ; 

127 



THE LIVING LOST. 

Whispering, hoarsely, " Fishermen, 
Have you, have you heard of Ben ? " 
Old with watching, 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 

Twenty Winters 
Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views: 

Twenty seasons ; 
Never one has brought her any news. 
Still her dim eyes silently 
Chase the white sails o'er the sea. 
Hopeless, faithful, 
Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 

Lucy Larcom. 



THE LIVES G LOST. 

Matron, the children of whose love, 

Each to his grave, in youth have passed, 
And now the mould is heaped above 

The dearest and the last ! 
Bride, who dost wear the widow's veil 
Before the wedding flowers are pale ! 
Ye deem the human heart endures 
No deeper, bitterer grief than yours. 

Yet there are pangs of keener woe, 
Of which the sufferers never speak, 

128 



THE LIVING LOST. 

Nor to the world's cold pity show 
The tears that scald the cheek, 
Wrung from their eyelids by the shame 
And guilt of those they shrink to name, 
Whom once they loved with cheerful will, 
And love, though fallen and branded, still. 

Weep, ye who sorrow for the dead : 

Thus breaking hearts their pain relieve ; 
And reA^erenced are the tears ye shed, 

And honored ye who grieve. 
The praise of those who sleep in earth, 
The pleasant memory of their worth, 
The hope to meet when life is past, 
Shall heal the tortured mind at last. 

But ye, who for the living lost 

That agony in secret bear, 
Who shall with soothing words accost 

The strength of your despair ? 
Grief for your sake is scorn for them 
Whom ye lament and all condemn ; 
And o'er the world of spirits lies 
A gloom from which ye turn your eyes. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



129 



LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 

I'm sitting on the stile, Mary, 

Where we sat side by side, 
On a bright May morning long ago, 

When first you were my bride ; 
The corn was springing fresh and green, 

And the lark sang loud and high ; 
And the red was on your lip, Mary, 

And the love-light in your eye. 

The place is little changed, Mary ; 

The day is bright as then ; 
The lark's loud song is in my ear, 

And the corn is green again ; 
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 

And your breath, warm on my cheek ; 
And I still keep listening for the words 

You never more will speak. 

'Tis but a step down yonder lane, 

And the little church stands near, 
The church where we were wed, Mary : 

I see the spire from here. 
But the graveyard lies between, Mary, 

And my step might break your rest ; 
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, 

With your baby on your breast. 
130 



LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 

I'm very lonely now, Mary, 

For the poor make no new friends ; 
But O, they love the better still 

The few our Father sends ! 
And you were all I had, Mary, 

My blessing and my pride ; 
There's nothing left to care for now, 

Since my poor Mary died. 

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, 

That still kept hoping on, 
When the trust in God had left my soul, 

And my arm's young strength was gone. 
There was comfort ever on your lip, 

And the kind look on your brow ; 
I bless you, Mary, for that same, 

Though you cannot hear me now. 

I thank you for the patient smile 

When your heart was fit to break, 
When the hunger pain was gnawing there 

And you hid it for my sake ; 
I bless you for the pleasant word 

When your heart was sad and sore : 
O, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 

Where grief can't reach you more ! 

I'm bidding you a long farewell, 

My Mary, kind and true ; 
But I'll not forget you, darling, 

In the land I'm going to. 
131 



A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

They say there's bread and work for all. 

And the sun shines always there ; 
But I'll not forget old Ireland, 

Were it fifty times as fair ! 

And often in those grand old woods 

I'll sit, and shut my eyes, 
And my heart will travel back again 

To the place where Mary lies ; 
And I'll think I see the little stile 

Where we sat side by side, 
And the springing corn, and the bright May morn. 

When first you were my bride. 

Mrs. Blackwood, (Lady Dufferin.) 



A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

It was the calm and silent night ! 

Seven hundred years and fifty-three 
Had Rome been growing up to might, 

And now was queen of land and sea. 
No sound was heard of clashing wars : 

Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain ; 
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars, 

Held undisturbed their ancient reign, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ! 
132 



A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

'Twas in the calm and silent night ! 

The senator of haughty Rome 
Impatient urged his chariot's flight, 

From lordly revel rolling home. 
Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell 

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway ; 
What recked the Roman what befell 

A paltry province far away, 

In the solemn midnight, 

Centuries ago ? 



Within that province far away 

Went plodding home a weary boor ; 
A streak of light before him lay, 

Fallen through a half shut stable door 
Across his path. He passed; for naught 

Told what was going on within. 
How keen the stars ! his only thought : 

The air, how calm, and cold, and thin ! 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago. 



O strange indifference ! — low and high 
Drowsed over common joys and cares ; 

The earth was still, but knew not why ; 
The world was listening — unawares. 

How calm a moment may precede 

One that shall thrill the world forever ! 



133 



THE POET'S CHRISTMAS. 

To that still moment, none would heed, 
Man's doom was linked no more to sever, 
In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago ! 

It is the calm and solemn night ! 

A thousand bells ring out, and throw 
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 

The darkness — charmed and holy now ! 
The night that erst no name had worn, 

To it a happy name is given ; 
For in that stable lay, new-born, 

The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven, 

In the solemn midnight, 

Centuries ago ! 

Alfred Dommett, 



THE POET'S CHRISTMAS. 

Cold Christmas eve ! the muffled waits 

Are chiming in the frozen street ; 
Round pauper courts and princely gates 

The music lingers sweet. 
In many a happy curtained brain 

Dreams of to-morrow weave their spells, 
Till daylight, laughing at each pane, 

Comes with a. burst of bells. 
134 



THE POET'S CHRISTMAS. 

Blithe Christmas morn ! such lusty cheer, 

Such kindly greeting, friendly talk, 
Might make the roses of the year 

Flush Winter's frozen stalk, 
And fill the heart with throbs of Spring, 

And stir the soul with golden dreams ; 
For seraphs in the holly sing, 

Joy in the yule-fire gleams. 

Yet silence sits within my room, 

And coldness lies upon my hearth, 
Though 'tis an hour when ice of gloom 

Should feel the thaws of mirth. 
They say a spirit walks abroad 

To touch the stern and Horeb-heart, 
Until beneath the sacred rod 

The springs of pity start. 

They say the season bears a charm 

To melt the icicle of ill, 
To make the snowy bosom warm, 

And blunt the wintry chill. 
The world is merry with its wine, 

Its smoking meats, its smiling friends ; 
It has its pleasures — I have mine ; 

So Heaven shall make amends : 

The uplifting of a mouldered pall, 
The embers of a cold desire, 

The phantom shadows on my wall, 
The faces in the fire : 
135 



THE POET'S CHRISTMAS. 

These, with old hopes once nursed in vain, 
Old joys, old tears, old feelings fled, 

And that long, long remembered train, 
The army of the dead 1 

My Christmas guests. With these I sit 

Through every shout, through every chime, 
A weary bird, condemned to flit 

Round darkening shores of Time. 
But constant cares and sorrows grow 

Familiar as a face we love ; 
And there are luxuries of woe 

Jove's banquet could not move. 

And if, at Fancy's wild command, 

Some form should mould itself from shade, 
Or through the gloom I felt a hand 

Upon my shoulder laid, 
Scarce would I start — so long I've known 

That loneliness of life which gives 
The soul a phantom world its own, 

Wherein it silent lives. 

But let the world have joy without, 

The poet shall have joy within. 
Then wreathe old Christmas' face about, 

Down to his glowing chin ; 
No pleasure spare, no pastime shun, 

Each roof with social clouds be curled : 

'Tis well ; for once beneath the sun 

There rolls a happy world ! 

James Macfarlaxe. 
136 



THE FAIRIES. 

Up the airy mountain, 

Down tlie rushy glen, 
We daren't go a hunting, 

For fear of little men ; 
Wee folk, good folk, 

Trooping all together ; 
Green jacket, red cap, 

And white owl's feather ! 

Down along the rocky shore 

Some make their home: 
They live on crispy pancakes 

Of yellow tide-foam ; 
Some in the reeds 

Of the black mountain-lake, 
With frogs for their watch-dogs, 

All night awake. 

High on the hill-top 

The old king sits ; 
He is now so old and gray 

He's nigh lost his wits. 
With a bridge of white mist 

Columbkill he crosses, 

R* 137 



THE FAIRIES. 

On his stately journeys 

From Slieveleague to Rosses ; 

Or going up with music, 
On cold, starry nights, 

To sup with the queen 

Of the gay Northern Lights. 

They stole little Bridget 

For seven years long ; 
When she came down again 

Her friends were all gone. 
They took her lightly back, 

Between the night and morrow ; 
They thought that she was fast asleep, 

But she was dead with sorrow. 
They have kept her ever since 

Deep within the lakes, 
On a bed of flag-leaves, 

Watching till she wakes. 

By the craggy hill-side, 

Through the mosses bare, 
They have planted thorn-trees 

For pleasure here and there ; 
Is any man so daring 

To dig one up in spite, 
He shall find the thornies set 

In his bed at night. 

Up the airy mountain, 
Down the rushy glen, 



THE FAIRIES. 




For fear of little 
men ; 
Wee folk, good folk, 

Trooping all together 
Green jacket, red cap, 
And white owl's 
feather ! 



WiLLrAM Allingiiam. 



339 



SUMMER DAYS. 

In Summer, when tlie days were long, 
We walked together in the wood : 
Our heart was light, our step was strong ; 
Sweet nutterings were there in our blood, 
In Summer, when the days were long. 

We strayed from morn till evening came ; 
We gathered flowers, and wove us crowns ; 
We walked 'mid poppies red as flame, 
Or sat upon the yellow downs, 
And always wished our life the same. 

In Summer, when the days were long, 
We leaped the hedgerow, crossed the brook ; 
And still her voice flowed forth in song, 
Or else she read some graceful book, 
In Summer, when the days were long. 

And then we sat beneath the trees, 
With shadows lessening in the noon ; 
And, in the sunlight and the breeze, 
We feasted, many a gorgeous June, 
While larks were singino; o'er the leas, 
no 



SUMMER DAYS. 

In Summer, when the days were long, 
On dainty chicken, snow-white bread, 
We feasted, with no grace but song. 
We plucked wild strawberries, ripe and red, 
In Summer, when the days were long. 

We loved, and yet we knew it not ; 
For loving seemed like breathing then. 
We found a heaven in every spot, 
Saw angels too, in all good men, 
And dreamed of God in grove and grot. 

In Summer, when the days are long, 
Alone I wander, muse alone. 
I see her not ; but that old song 
Under the fragrant wind is blown, 
In Summer, when the days are long. 

Alone I wander in the wood ; 
But one fair spirit hears my sighs ; 
And half I see, so glad and good, 
The honest daylight of her eyes, 
That charmed me under earlier skies. 

In Summer, when the days are long, 
I love her as we loved of old ; 
My heart is light, my step is strong ; 
For love brings back those hours of gold, 
In Summer, when the days are long. 

Anonymous. 



141 



THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 

'Twas in the prime of summer time, 

An evening calm and cool, 
And four-and-twenty happy boys 

Came bounding out of school ; 
There were some that ran and some that leapt. 

Like troutlets in a pool. 

Away they sped with gamesome minds, 

And souls untouched by sin ; 
To a level mead they came, and there 

They drave the wickets in : 
Pleasantly shone the setting sun 

Over the town of Lynn. 

Like sportive deer they coursed about, 

And shouted as they ran, 
Turning to mirth all things of earth, 

As only boyhood can ; 
But the Usher sat remote from all, 

A melancholy man. 

His hat was off, his vest apart, 
To catch heaven's blessed breeze ; 

For a burning thought was in his brow, 
And his bosom ill at ease ; 



142 



THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 

So he leaned his head on his hands, and read 
The book between his knees. 

Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, 

Nor ever glanced aside ; 
For the peace of his soul he read that book 

In the golden eventide ; 
Much study had made him very lean, 

And pale, and leaden-eyed. 

At last he shut the ponderous tome ; 

With a fast and fervent grasp 
He strained the dusky covers close, 

And fixed the brazen hasp : 
". O God ! could I so close my mind, 

And clasp it with a clasp ! " 

Then leaping on his feet upright, 

Some moody turns he took ; 
Now up the mead, then down the mead, 

And past a shady nook. 
And lo, he saw a little boy, 

That pored upon a book ! 

" My gentle lad, what is't you read ? 

Romance, or fairy fable ? 
Or is it some historic page, 

Of kings, and crowns unstable ? " 
The young boy gave an upward glance : 

" It is < The Death of Abel.' " 



143 



THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 

The Usher took six hasty strides, 

As smit with sudden pain, 
Six hasty strides beyond the place, 

Then slowly back again ; 
And down he sat beside the lad, 

And talked with him of Cain ; 

And, long since then, of bloody men, 

Whose deeds tradition saves ; 
And lonely folk cut off unseen, 

And hid in sudden graves ; 
And horrid stabs in groves forlorn, 

And murders done in caves. 

And how the sprites of injured men 

Shriek upward from the sod ; 
Aye ! how the ghostly hand will point 

To show the burial clod, 
And unknown facts of guilty acts 

Are seen in dreams from God ! 

He told how murderers walk the earth 

Beneath the curse of Cain, 
With crimson clouds before their eyes, 

And flames about their brain ; 
For blood has left upon their souls 

Its everlasting stain. 

" And well," quoth he, "I know, for truth, 
Their pangs must be extreme : 



144 



THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 

Woe, woe, unutterable woe, 

Who spill life's sacred stream ! 
For why ? Methought, last night I wrought 

A murder, in a dream. 

" One that had never done me wrong, 

A feeble man and old ; 
I led him to a lonely field ; 

The moon shone clear and cold : 
Now here, said I, this man shall die, 

And I will have his gold ! 

" Two sudden blows with a ragged stick. 

OCT 

And one with a heavy stone, 
One hurried gash with a hasty knife ; 

And then the deed was done : 
There was nothing lying at my feet 

But lifeless flesh and bone ! 

" Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, 

That could not do me ill ; 
And yet I feared him all the more, 

For lying there so still : 
There was a manhood in his look, 

That murder could not kill. 

" And lo, the universal air 

Seemed lit with ghastly flame ! 
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes 

Were looking down in blame. 



45 



THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 

I took the dead man by his hand, 
And called upon his name. 

" O God ! it made me quake to see 

Such sense within the slain ! 
But when I touched the lifeless clay, 

The blood gushed out amain ; 
For every clot a burning spot 

Was scorching in my brain. 

" My head was like an ardent coal, 

My heart as solid ice ; 
My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, 

Was at the Devil's price. 
A dozen times I groaned — the dead 

Had never groaned but twice ! 

"And now, from forth the frowning sky, 
From the heaven's topmost height, 

I heard a voice — the awful voice 
Of the blood-avenging Sprite : 

4 Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead, 
And hide it from my sight ! ' 

" And I took the dreary body up, 

And cast it in a stream : 
The sluggish water black as ink, 

The depth was so extreme. 
My gentle boy, remember, this 

Is nothing but a dream. 



146 



THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 

44 Down went the corse with a hollow plnnge, 

And vanished in the pool ; 
Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, 

And washed my forehead cool, 
And sat among the urchins young, 

That evening in the school. 

" O Heaven ! to think of their white souls, 

And mine so black and grim ! 
I could not share in childish prayer, 

Nor join in evening hymn ; 
Like a devil of the pit I seemed, 

'Mid holy cherubim. 

" And Peace went with them, one and all, 

And each calm pillow spread ; 
But Guilt was my grim chamberlain, 

That lighted me to bed, 
And drew my midnight curtains round 

With fingers bloody red ! 

" All night I lay in agony, 

In anguish dark and deep ; 
My fevered eyes I dared not close, 

But stared aghast at Sleep ; 
For Sin had rendered unto her 

The keys of hell to keep ! 

" All night I lay in agony, 
From weary chime to chime; 



147 



THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 

With one besetting, horrid hint, 

That racked me all the time : 
.A mighty yearning, like the first 

Fierce impulse unto crime : 

" One stern tyrannic thought, that made 

All other thoughts its slave. 
Stronger and stronger every pulse 

Did that temptation crave, 
Still urging me to go and see 

The dead man in his orave. 

" Heavily I rose up, as soon 

As light was in the sky, 
And sought the black accursed pool 

With a wild misgiving eye ; 
And I saw the dead in the river bed. 

For the faithless stream was dry. 

fc4 Merrily rose the lark, and shook 

The dew-drop from its wing ; 
But I never marked its morning flight, 

1 never heard it sing ; 
For I was stooping once again 

Under the horrid thing. 

" With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, 

I took him up and ran ; 
There was no time to dio* a grave 

Before the day began ; 



MS 



THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 

In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, 
I hid the murdered man ! 

" And all that day I read in school, 
But my thought was other where . 

As soon as the mid-day task was done, 
In secret I was there ; 

And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, 
And still the corse was bare ! 

" Then down I cast me on my face, 

And first began to weep, 
For I knew my secret then was one 

That earth refused to keep, 
Or land or sea, though he should be 

Ten thousand fathoms deep. 

" So wills the fierce avenging Sprite, 

Till blood for blood atones ! 
Aye, though he's buried in a cave, 

And trodden down with stones, 
And years have rotted off his flesh, 

The world shall see his bones ! 

" O God ! that horrid, horrid dream 

Besets me now awake ! 
Again — again, with dizzy brain, 

The human life I take ; 
And my red right hand grows raging hot, 

Like Cranmer's at the stake. 



149 



WHEN STARS ARE IN THE QUIET SKIES. 

" And still no peace for the restless clay 

Will wave or mould allow : 
The horrid thing pursues my soul ; 

It stands before me now ! " 
The fearful boy looked up, and saw 

Huge drops upon his brow. 

That very night, while gentle sleep 

The urchin's eyelids kissed, 
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn 

Through the cold and heavy mist ; 
And Eugene Aram walked between, 

With gyves upon his wrist. 



Thomas Hood 



WHEN STARS ARE IN THE QUIET SKIES. 

When stars are in the quiet skies, 

Then most I pine for thee ; 
Bend on me then thy tender eyes, 

As stars look on the sea. 
For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, 

Are stillest when they shine ; 
Mine earthly love lies hushed in light 

Beneath the heaven of thine. 

There is an hour when angels keep 

Familiar watch o'er men, 
When coarser souls are wrapped in sleep ; 

Sweet spirit, meet me then ! 
150 



MADRIGAL. 

There is an hour when holy dreams 

Through slumber fairest glide, 
And in that mystic hour it seems 

Thou shouldst be by my side. 

My thoughts of thee too sacred are 

For daylight's common beam ; 
I can but know thee as my star, 

My angel and my dream ! 
When stars are in the quiet skies, 

Then most I pine for thee ; 
Bend on me then thy tender eyes, 

As stars look on the sea. 

Edward Bulwer Lytton. 



MADRIGAL. 



As I saw fair Chloris walk alone, 
The feathered rain came softly down, 
As Jove descending from his tower 
To court her in a silver shower. 
The wanton snow flew to her breast, 
As little birds into their nest ; 
But, overcome with whiteness there, 
For grief dissolved into a tear ; 
Thence falling on her garment's hem, 
To deck her, froze into a gem. 

Anonymous. 
151 




LUCY. 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways, 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A maid whom there were none to praise, 

And very few to love : 

A violet by a mossy stone, 

Half hidden from the eye ; 
Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 



She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and O, 
The difference to me ! 

William Wordsworth. 
152 



THE SAILOR. 



A ROMAIC BALLAD. 



Thou that hast a daughter 

For one to woo and wed, 
Give her to a husband 

With snow upon his head ; 
O, give her to an old man, 

Though little joy it be, 
Before the best young sailor 

That sails upon the sea ! 

How luckless is the sailor 

When sick and like to die ; 
He sees no tender mother, 

No sweetheart standing by. 
Only the captain speaks to him : 

" Stand up, stand up, young man ! 
And steer the ship to haven, 

As none beside thee can." 

Thou say'st to me, " Stand up, stand up ! 

I say to thee, Take hold ! 
Lift me a little from the deck ; 

My hands and feet are cold. 
And let my head, I pray thee, 

With handkerchiefs be bound : 
153 



THE SAILOR. 

There ! take my love's gold handkerchief, 
And tie it tightly round. 

Now bring the chart, the doleful chart ; 

See, where these mountains meet ! 
The clouds are thick around their head. 

The mists around their feet. 
Cast anchor here ; 'tis deep and safe 

Within the rocky cleft : 
The little anchor on the right, 

The great one on the left. 

And now to thee, O captain, 

Most earnestly I pray, 
That they may never bury me 

In church or cloister gray ; 
But on the windy sea-beach, 

At the ending of the land, 
All on the surfy sea-beach, 

Deep down into the sand. 

For there will come the sailors ; 

Their voices I shall hear, 
And, at casting of the anchor, 

The yo-ho loud and clear, 
And, at hauling of the anchor, 

The yo-ho and the cheer. 
Farewell, my love, for to thy bay 

I nevermore may steer ! 

William Allingham 



154 



THE MERRY CHASSEUR. 

O, a gallant sans-peur 

Is the merry chasseur, 

With his fanfaron horn, and his rifle, ping-pang ! 

And his grand haversack 

Of gold on his back : 

His pistol, cric-crac ! 

And his sword, cling-clang ! 

O, to see him blithe and gay 

From some hot and bloody day, 
Come to dance the night away till the bugle blows " au rang ! " 

With a wheel and a whirl, 

And a wheeling waltzing girl, 
And his bow, " place aux dames ! " and his oath, " feu et sang ! " 

And his hop and his fling, 

Till his gold and silver ring 
To the clatter and the clash of his sword, cling-clang ! 

But hark ! 

Through the dark 

Up goes the well-known shout ! 

The drums beat the turn-out ! 

Cut short your courting, Monsieur l'Amant ! 

Saddle ! mount ! march ! trot ! 

Down comes the storm of shot! 

The foe is at the charge ! En avant ! 

155 



DELIGHT IN DISORDER. 

His jolly haversack 

Of gold is on his back ; 

Hear his pistol, cric-crac ! hear his rifle, ping-pang ! 

Vive l'Empereur I 

And where' s the chasseur ? 

He's in 

Among the din, 

Steel to steel — cling-clang ! 

Sydxky Dohklt. 



DELIGHT IN DISORDER. 

A sweet disorder in the dress 

Kindles in clothes a wantonness : 

A lawn about the shoulders, thrown 

Into a tine distraction ; 

An erring lace, which here and there 

Inthrals the crimson stomacher ; 

A cuff neglectful, and thereby 

Ribbons to flow confusedly ; 

A winning; wave, deservino- note, 

In the tempestuous petticoat ; 

A careless shoestring, in whose tie 

I see a wild civility ; 

Do more bewitch me than when art 

Is too precise in every part. 

Robert Hkrkick. 

I5fi 




THE JOINERS. 



The moon is round and big, and full 
Of something strange and beautiful : 

Pensive and pale, she seems to lie, 
Couched in the comfortable sky, 

Wistfully watching all anion a 

The stars, and troubled for her young 

15 7 



THE JOINERS. 



II. 

The Joiner's wife is big, and full 
Of something strange and beautiful : 

Patient and still and pale she lies, 
A tender terror in her eyes, 

Wistfully, through the workshop door, 
Counting his footsteps on the floor. 



in. 
A restless and a troubled ray 
Hath vexed the Joiner's eye all day, 

As fretful firelight flickers o'er 
The chambers of the sick and poor ; 

But Love fills with religious light 
The chapel of his thoughts to-night, 

And consecrated tapers shine 
Above, before, around the shrine. 

His words are few and low and mild, 
As careful for a sleeping child. 

No cunning in his craft of late : 
Compass and plumb and rule must wait, 

158 



THE JOINERS. 



Till the Unerring Skill hath done 
The work his daring love begun. 




IV. 



Two figures cross the Joiner's sill, 
Two prophecies, of Good and 111 ; 



159 



THE JOINERS. 

One paler, colder than the moon, 
The other like an April noon ; 

Two odors — this of churchyard mould, 
That as when fragrant buds unfold : 



v. 

" Good master, by your leave, you see 
Two joiners faring piteously. 

44 Weary and famished, cold and sore, 
Warmth, rest, refreshment, we implore ; 

44 So, master, be your roof-tree blest 
In coming and in parting guest, 

44 And we your pity will requite 
With nimble handicraft to-night." 



VI. 

44 Well done ! " The strangers' hammers ring 
In measure to strange tunes they sing ; 

A dirge, a cradle-hymn they try, 
A requiem and a lullaby. 



VII. 

The moon is gone, her place all dark, 
Where late she lay one struggling spark ! 
160 



TO LU CASTA. 

And she is " parting : " her vacant breast 
But coldly welcomes " the coming guest ; " 

But they finished their work ere they went their way, 
A coffin grim and a cradle gay. 

John Williamson Palmer. 




TO LUCASTA, 

ON GOING TO THE WARS. 

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde, 

That from the nunnerie 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde 

To warre and armes I flee. 

161 



THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. 

True, a new mistresse now I chase, 

The first foe in the field ; 
And with a stronger faith imbraee 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you, too, shall adore ; 
I could not love thee, deare, so much, 

Loved I not honor more. 

Richard Lovklack 



THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE 

Come live with me, and be my love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove 
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, 
Woods or steepy mountains yields. 

There will we sit upon the rocks, 
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

There will I make thee beds of roses, 
With a thousand fragrant posies ; 
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle, 
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle ; 

162 



THE NYMPH'S REPLY 

A gown, made of the finest wool 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 
Fair-lined slippers for the cold, 
With buckles of the purest gold ; 

A belt of straw, and ivy buds, 
With coral clasps and amber studs : 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me, and be my love. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, 
For thy delight each May morning: 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Then live with me, and be my love. 

Christopher Marlowe. 



THE NYMPH'S REPLY. 

If that the world and love were young, 
And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 
These pretty pleasures might me move, 
To live with thee and be thy love. 

But time drives flocks from field to fold, 
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold ; 
And Philomel becometh dumb, 
And all complain of cares to come. 
.163 



THE NYMPH'S REPLY. 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
To wayward Winter reckoning yields ; 
A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 
Is fancy's Spring, but sorrow's Fall. 

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds, 
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs : 
All these in me no means can move 
To come to thee, and be thy love. 

But could youth last, and love still breed, 
Had joys no date, nor age no need, 
Then these delights my mind might move 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 

Sir Walter Raleigh. 



16-1 



TO THE UNSATISFIED. 

Why thus longing, thus forever sighing 
For the far-off, unattained and dim, 

While the beautiful, all round thee lying, 
Offers up its low perpetual hymn ? 

Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, 
All thy restless yearnings it would still : 

Leaf and flower, and laden bee, are preaching, 
Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. 

Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee 
Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw ; 

If no silken cord of love hath bound thee 

To some little world, through weal and woe ; 

If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten, 
No fond voices answer to thine own ; 

If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten 
By daily sympathy and gentle tone. 

Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses. 
Not by works that give thee world-renown. 

Not by martyrdom, or vaunted crosses, 

Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown. 

U Hio 



TO THE UNSATISFIED. 

Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, 

Every day a rich reward will give ; 
Thou wilt find by hearty striving only, 

And truly loving, thou canst truly live. 

Dost thou revel in the rosy morning, 
When all nature hails the lord of light, 

And his smile, the mountain-tops adorning, 
Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright ? 

Other hands may grasp the field and forest, 
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine ; 

But with fervent love if thou adorest, 

Thou art wealthier — all the world is thine ! 

Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest, 
Sighing that they are not thine alone, 

Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest, 
And their beauty, and thy wealth, are gone. 

Nature wears the color of the spirit ; 

Sweetly to her worshipper she sings ; 
All the glow, the grace she doth inherit, 

Round her trusting child she fondly flings. 

Harriet Winslow. 



\6il 



DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. 



To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 

Soft maids and village hinds shall brin 
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom. 

And rifle all the breathing Spring. 



L g 



No wailing ghost shall dare appear, 
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; 

But shepherd lads assemble here, 

And melting virgins own their love. 

No withered witch shall here be seen, 
No goblins lead their nightly crew ; 

The female fays shall haunt the green, 
And dress thy grave with pearly dew. 

The redbreast oft, at evening hours. 
Shall kindly lend his little aid. 

With hoary moss, and gathered flowers, 
To deck the ground where thou art laid. 

When howling winds and beating rain 
In tempests shake the sylvan cell, 

Or midst the chase, on every plain, 

The tender thought on thee shall dwell, 

1 «J7 



THE DIRGE OF IMOGEN. 

Each lonely scene shall thee restore, 

For thee the tear be duly shed : 
Beloved till Life can charm no more, 

And mourned till Pity's self be dead. 

William Colltns 



THE DIRGE OF IMOGEN. 

Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 
Nor the furious Winter's rages ; 

Thou thy worldly task hast done, 

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages 

Golden lads and girls all must, 

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 

Fear no more the frown o' the great, 
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 

Care no more to clothe and eat ; 
To thee the reed is as the oak. 

The sceptre, learning, physic, must 

All follow this, and come to dust. 

Fear no more the lightning-flash, 
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; 

Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
Thou hast finished joy and moan : 



168 



YORK AND LANCASTER. 

All lovers young, all lovers must 
Consign to thee, and come to dust. 

No exorciser harm thee ! 

Nor no witchcraft charm thee ! 

Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! 

Nothing ill come near thee ! 
Quiet consummation have, 
And renowned be thy grave ! 



Shakspkare. 



YORK AND LANCASTER 

If this fair rose offend thy sight, 
Placed in thy bosom bare, 

'Twill blush to find itself less white, 
And turn Lancastrian there. 

But if thy ruby lip it spy, 

As kiss it thou mayst deign, 
With envy pale 'twill lose its dye, 



And Yorkish turn again. 



Anonymous 



ft* 169 




THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 



With fingers weary and worn, 
With eyelids heavy and red, 

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
Plying her needle and thread : 
Stitch, stitch, stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 

170 



£ far* ~^~ *~^ 







^d yE^^c 



S^ St^y -7/^s J^yj s? /Z~ o/X^t / 




THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 
She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" 

" Work, work, work ! 

While the cock is crowing aloof; 
And work, work, work ! 

Till the stars shine through the roof. 
It's O ! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save. 

If this is Christian work ! 

" Work, work, work, 

Till the brain begins to swim ! 
Work, work, work, 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
Seam, and gusset, and band, 

Band, and gusset, and seam; 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 

And sew them on in a dream ! 

" O men, with sisters dear ! 

O men, with mothers and wives ! 
It is not linen you're wearing out, 

But human creatures' lives ! 
Stitch, stitch, stitch, 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
Sewing at once, with a double thread. 

A shroud as well as a shirt ! 

" But why do I talk of Death, 
That phantom of grisly bone ? 

171 



THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 

I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own ; 
It seems so like my own 

Because of the fasts I keep ; 
O God ! that bread should be so dear, 

And flesh and blood so cheap ! 

" Work, work, work ! 

My labor never flags ; 
And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread — and rags. 
That shattered roof — and this naked floor, 

A table — a broken chair ; 
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there ! 

" Work, work, work, 

From weary chime to chime ! 
Work, work, work, 

As prisoners work for crime ! 
Band, and gusset, and seam, 

Seam, and gusset, and band ; 
Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, 

As well as the weary hand. 

" Work, work, work, 

In the dull December light ! 
And work, work, work, 

When the weather is warm and bright ! 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swallows clino;, 
172 



THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 

As if to show me their sunny backs, 
And twit me with the Spring. 

" O ! but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet. 
With the sky above my head, 

And the grass beneath my feet ! 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel, 
Before I knew the woes of want. 

And the walk that costs a meal 

" O ! but for one short hour, 

A respite however brief! 
No blessed leisure for love or hope, 

But only time for grief! 
A little weeping would ease my heart ; 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread ! " 

With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread. 
Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, 
Would that its tone could reach the rich ! 



She sang this " Song; of the Shirt ! " 



Thomas Hood. 



ELEGY. 

Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed, 

Never to be disquieted ! 

My last good night ! Thou wilt not wake 

Till I thy fate shall overtake. 

Till age, or grief, or sickness, must 

Marry my body to that dust 

It so much loves, and fill the room 

My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. 

Stay for me there ; I will not faile 

To meet thee in that hollow vale ; 

And think not much of my delay : 

I am already on the way, 

And follow thee with all the speed 

Desire can make, or sorrows breed. 

Each minute is a short degree, 

And every hour a step towards thee; 

At night when I betake to rest, . 

Next morn I rise nearer my west 

Of life, almost by eight houres saile, 

Than when sleep breathed his drowsie gale 

Thus from the sun my bottom steares, 
And my dayes compass downward bears ; 
Nor labor I to stemme the tide 
Through which to thee I swiftly glide. 

174 



THE DEATH-BED. 

'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, 

Thou, like the vanne, first took'st the field. 

And gotten hast the victory, 

In thus adventuring to die 

Before me, whose more years might crave 

A just precedence in the grave. 

But hark ! my pulse, like a soft drum, 

Beats my approach, tells thee I come ; 

And slow howe'er my marches be, 

I shall at last sit down by thee. 

The thought of this bids me go on, 

And wait my dissolution 

With hope and comfort. Dear, forgive 

The crime : I am content to live 

Divided, with but half a heart, 

Till we shall meet and never part. 



Henry King 



THE DEATH-BED. 

We watched her breathing through the night, 

Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seemed to speak, 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

175 



AULU ROBIN GRAY. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 

Our fears our hopes belied ; 
We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came, dim and sad, 

And chill with early showers, 

Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 

Another morn than ours. 

Thomas Hood. 



AULD ROBIN GRAY. 

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, 
When a' the weary warld to quiet rest are gane, 
The woes of my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, 
Unkenned by my gudeman, who soundly sleeps by me. 

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride ; 
But, saving ae crown piece, he'd naething else beside. 
To mak the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea ; 
And the crown and the pound, O they were baith for me ! 

Before he had been gane a twelvemonth and a day, 
My father brak his arm ; our cow was stown away ; 
My mother she fell sick — my Jamie was at sea ; 
And Auld Robin Gray, O he cam a-courting me ! 

176 



AULD ROBIN GRAY. 

My father cou'dna work — my mother cou'dna spin; 
I toiled day and night, but their bread I cou'dna win ; 
Auld Rob maintained them baith ; and, wi' tears in his ee, 
Said, " Jenny, O ! for their sakes, will ye marry me ? " 

My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back ; 
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wra^k ; 
His ship it was a wrack ! Why didna Jamie dee ? 
Or wherefore am I spared to cry out, Woe is me ! 

My father argued sair — my mother didna speak, 
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break 
They gied him my hand, but my heart was in the sea ; 
And so Auld Robin Gray, he was gudeman to me. 

I hadna been his wife, a week but only four, 

When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door, 

I saw my Jamie's ghaist — I cou'dna think it he, 

Till he said, " I'm come hame, my love, to marry thee ! " 

sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a' ; 
Ae kiss we took, nae mail* — I bade him ffang awn. 

1 wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee ; 
For O, I am but young to cry out, Woe is me ! 

T gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin. 
I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; 
But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be ; 
For Auld Robin Gray, O ! he is sae kind to me. 

Lady Axnk Lindsay. 



177 



NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR. 

I love contemplating, apart 

From all his homicidal glory, 
The traits that soften to our heart 
Napoleon's story. 

'Twas when his banners at Boulogne 

Armed in our island every freeman, 
His navy chanced to capture one 
Poor British seaman. 



They suffered him, I know not how, 
Unprisoned on the shore to roam ; 
And aye was bent his longing brow 
On England's home. 

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight 
Of birds, to Britain half-way over, 
With envy — they could reach the white, 
Dear cliffs of Dover. 

A stormy midnight watch, he thought, 

Than this sojourn would have been dearer, 
If but the storm his vessel brought 
To England nearer. 
178 



NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR. 



At last, when care had banished sleep, 

He saw one morning — dreaming — doting, 
An empty hogshead from the deep 
Come shoreward floating ; 



He hid it in a cave, and wrought 

The livelong day laborious ; lurking. 
Until he launched a tiny boat, 
By mighty working. 

Heaven help us ! 'twas a thing beyond 
Description wretched ; such a wherry 
Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond, 
Or crossed a ferry. 

For ploughing in the salt-sea field, 

It would have made the boldest shudder 
Un tarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled; 
No sail — no rudder. 



From neighboring woods he interlaced 

His sorry skiff with wattled willows ; 
And, thus equipped, he would have passed 
The foaming billows. 



But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, 

His little Argo sorely jeering ; 
Till tidings of him chanced to reach 
Napoleon's hearing. 

179 



NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR. 

With folded arms Napoleon stood, 

Serene alike in peace and danger ; 
And, in his wonted attitude, 
Addressed the stranger: 

" Hash man, that would'st yon channel pass 
On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned ! 
Thy heart with some sweet British lass 
Must be impassioned." 

" I have no sweetheart," said the lad ; 
" But, absent long from one another, 
Great was the longing that I had 
To see my mother." 

" And so thou shalt," Napoleon said : 
" Ye've both my favor fairly won ; 
A noble mother must have bred 
So brave a son-" 

He gave the tar a piece of gold, 

And, with a flag of truce, commanded 
He should be shipped to England Old, 
And safely landed. 

Our sailor oft could scantly shift 

To find a dinner, plain and hearty ; 
But never changed the coin and gift 
Of Bonaparte. 



Thomas Campbkll. 



180 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 

AT BALAKLAVA. 

Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death, 

Rode the Six Hundred. 

Into the valley of Death 
Rode the Six Hundred ; 

For up came an order which 
Some one had blundered. 

" Forward, the Light Brigade ! 

Take the guns ! " Nolan said ; 

Into the valley of Death, 
Rode the Six Hundred. 

" Forward, the Light Brigade 1 '* 
No man was there dismayed, 
Not though the soldiers knew 

Some one had blundered : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die ; 
Into the valley of Death, 

Rode the Six Hundred. 
v* 181 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them, 

Volleyed and thundered. 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well ; 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell, 

Rode the Six Hundred. 




Flashed all their sabres bare, 
Flashed all at once in air, 
182 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 

Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wondered. 
Plunged in the battery smoke, 
With many a desperate stroke 
The Russian line they broke ■ 
Then they rode back — but not, 

Not the Six Hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them, 

Volleyed and thundered. 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
Those that had fought so well 
Came from the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 

Left of Six Hundred. 

When can their glory fade ? 
O ! the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble Six Hundred ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 



183 



CRADLE SONG. 

What is the little one thinking about? 
Very wonderful things, no doubt: 
Unwritten history ! 
Unfathomed mystery ! 
Yet he chuckles, and crows, and nods, and winks, 
As if his head were as full of kinks 
And curious riddles as any sphinx ! 
Warped by colic, and wet by tears, 
Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, 
Our little nephew will lose two years ; 
And he'll never know 
Where the Summers go : 
He need not laugh, for he'll find it so ! 

Who can tell what a baby thinks ? 
Who can follow the gossamer links 

By which the manikin feels his way 
Out from the shore of the great unknown, 
Blind, and wailing, and alone, 

Into the light of day ? 
Out from the shore of the unknown sea, 
Tossing in pitiful agony ; 
Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, 
Specked with the barks of little souls : 
184 



CRADLE SONG. 

Barks that were launched on the other side, 
And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing tide ! 

What does he think of his mother's eyes? 
What does he think of his mother's hair ? 

What of the cradle-roof, that flies 
Forward and backward through the air ? 

What does he think of his mother's breast, 
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, 
Seeking it ever with fresh delight, 

Cup of his life and couch of his rest ? 
What does he think when her quick embrace 
Presses his hand, and buries his face 
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell, 
With a tenderness she can never tell, 
Though she murmur the words 
Of all the birds, 
Words she has learned to murmur well ? 
Now he thinks he'll go to sleep ! 
I can see the shadow creep 
Over his eyes in soft eclipse, 
Over his brow and over his lips, 
Out to his little finger-tips ! 
Softly sinking, down he goes ! 
Down he goes ! Down he goes ! 
See ! He's hushed in sweet repose ! 

Josiah Gilbert Holland. 



185 



HE STANDETH AT THE DOOR AND KNOCKETH. 

In the silent midnight watches^ 

List — thy bosom door! 
How it knocketh — knocketh — knocketh, 

Knocketh evermore ! 
Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating : 

"Tis thy heart of sin ; 
'Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth 

" Rise, and let me in ! " 

Death comes on with reckless footsteps. 

To the hall and hut : 
Think you Death will tarry, knocking, 

Where the door is shut ? 
Jesus waiteth — waiteth — waiteth, 

But the door is fast ; 
Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth ; 

Death breaks in at last. 

Then 'tis time to stand entreating 

Christ to let thee in : 
At the gate of Heaven beating, 

Wailing for thy sin. 
186 



THE CROOKED FOOTPATH. 

Nay ! — alas, thou guilty creature ! 

Hast thou, then, forgot ? 

Jesus waited long to know thee ; 

Now he knows thee not. 

Arthur Cleveland Coxe 



THE CROOKED FOOTPATH. 

Ah, here it is ! the sliding rail 

That marks the old remembered spot, 

The gap that struck our schoolboy trail, 
The crooked path across the lot. 

It left the road by school and church : 
A pencilled shadow, nothing more, 

That parted from the silver birch 
And ended at the farmhouse door. 

No line or compass traced its plan ; 

With frequent bends to left or right, 
In aimless, wayward curves it ran, 

But always kept the door in sight. 

The gabled porch, with woodbine green, 
The broken millstone at the sill, 

Though many a rood might stretch between, 
The truant child could see them still. 

187 



THE CROOKED FOOTPATH. 

No rocks across the pathway lie, 

No fallen trunk is o'er it thrown ; 
And yet it winds, we know not why, 

And turns as if for tree or stone. 

Perhaps some lover trod the way, 

With shaking knees and leaping heart ; 

And so it often runs astray, 

With sinuous sweep or sudden start. 

Or one, perchance, with clouded brain, 
From some unholy banquet reeled ; 

And since, our devious steps maintain 
His track across the trodden field. 

Nay, deem not thus : — no earth-born will 

Could ever trace a faultless line ; 
Our truest steps are human still, 

To walk unswerving were divine. 

Truants from love, we dream of wrath ; 

O, rather let us trust the more ! 
Through all the wanderings of the path, 

We still can see our Father's door ! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



J88 




VANITAS. 



I've set my heart upon nothing, you see: 

Hurrah ! 
And so the world goes well with me : 

Hurrah ! 
And who has a mind to be fellow of mine, 
Why, let him take hold and help me drain 
These mouldy lees of wine, 
w 189 



V ANITAS. 

I set my heart at first upon wealth : 

Hurrah ! 
And bartered away my peace and health ; 

But ah ! 
The slippery change went about like air, 
And when I had clutched a handful here, 
Away it went there. 

T set my heart upon woman next : 

Hurrah ! 
For her sweet sake was oft perplexed ; 

But ah ! 
The false one looked for a daintier lot ; 
The constant one wearied me out and out ; 
The best was not easily got. 

I set my heart upon travels grand : 

Hurrah ! 
And spurned our plain old fatherland ; 

But ah ! 
Naught seemed to be just the thing it should : 
Most comfortless beds and indifferent food, 
My tastes misunderstood. 

I set my heart upon sounding fame : 

Hurrah ! 
And, lo ! I'm eclipsed by some upstart's name ; 

And ah ! 
When in public life I loomed quite high, 
The folk that passed me would look awry ; 
Their very worst friend was I. 
190 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 

And then I set my heart upon war : 

Hurrah ! 
We gained some battles with eclat : 

Hurrah ! 
We troubled the foe with sword and flame, 
And some of our friends fared quite the same. 
I lost a leg for fame. 

Now I've set my heart upon nothing, you see : 

Hurrah ! 
And the whole wide world belongs to me : 

Hurrah ! 
The feast begins to run low, no doubt : 
But at the old cask we'll have one good bout ! 
Come ! drink the lees all out ! 

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. (German.) 
Translation of John Sullivan Dwight. 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ! 'tis at a white heat now : 
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased ; though, on the forge 

brow, 
The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound, 
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round ; 
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare- 
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. 

191 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 

The windlass strains the tackle-chains — the black mould heaves below; 

And, red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe. 

It rises, roars, rends all outright — O, Vulcan ! what a glow ! 

'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright — the high sun shines not so! 

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery, fearful show ! 

The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row 

Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe ! 

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow 

Sinks on the anvil — all about, the faces fiery grow. 

" Hurrah ! " they shout, " leap out, leap out ! " bang, bang ! the 

sledges go ; 
Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low ; 
A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow ; 
The leathern mail rebounds the hail ; the rattling cinders strow 
The ground around ; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow : 
And, thick and loud, the swinking crowd at every stroke pant 

"ho!" 
Leap out, leap out, my masters ! leap out, and lay on load ! 
Let's forge a goodly anchor — a bower thick and broad; 
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode ; 
And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road: 
The low reef roaring on her lee ; the roll of ocean poured 
From stem to stern, sea after sea ; the mainmast by the board ; 
The bulwarks down ; the rudder gone ; the boats stove at the chains ; 
But courage still, brave mariners — the bower yet remains ! 
And not an inch to flinch he deigns — save when ye pitch sky high ; 
Then moves his head, as though he said, " Fear nothing — here 

am I ! " 

Swing in your strokes in order ! let foot and hand keep time ; 
Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime. 

192 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 

But while ye swing your sledges, sing ; and let the burden be, 

The anchor is the anvil-king, and royal craftsmen we ! 

Strike in, strike in ! — the sparks begin to dull their rustling red ; 

Our hammers ring with sharper din — our work will soon be sped : 

Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array 

For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay ; 

Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here 

For the yeo-heave-o, and the heave-away, and the sighing seamen's 

cheer, 
When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and home ; 
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. 

In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last ; 

A. shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. 

O trusted and trustworthy guard ! if thou hadst life like me, 

What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea ! 

O deep-sea diver, who might then behold such sights as thou ? 

The hoary monster's palaces ! — Methinks what joy 'twere now 

To go plumb-plunging down, amid the assembly of the whales, 

And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging 

tails ! 
Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn, 
And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn ; 
To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn ; 
And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn ; 
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles 
He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles, 
Till, snorting like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls ; 
Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished shoals 
Of his back-browsing ocean-calves ; or, haply, in a cove 
Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love, 
w* 193 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 

To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or, hard by icy lands, 
To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. 

O broad-armed fisher of the deep ! whose sports can equal thine ? 
The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons that tugs thy cable line ; 
And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, 
Through sable sea and breaker white the giant game to play. 
But, shamer of our little sports, forgive the name I gave : 
A fisher's joy is to destroy — thine office is to save. 
O lodger in the sea-kings' halls ! couldst thou but understand 
Whose be the white bones by thy side — or who that dripping band, 
Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend, 
With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend ! 
O, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round 

thee, 
Thine iron side would swell with pride — thou 'dst leap within the 

sea ! 

Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand 

To shed their blood so freely for the love of fatherland, 

Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave 

So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave ! 

O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, 

Honor him for their memory whose bones he goes among ! 

Samuel Ferguson. 



94 



THE LAWLANDS O' HOLLAND. 

The love that I bae chosen, 

I '11 therewith be content ; 
The saut sea sail be frozen 

Before that I repent. 
Repent it sail I never 

Until the day I dee ; 
But the Lawlands o' Holland 

Hae twinned my love and me. 

My love he built a bonny ship, 

And set her to the main, 
Wi' twenty-four brave mariners 

To sail her out and hame. 
But the weary wind began to rise, 

The sea began to rout, 
And my love and his bonny ship 

Turned withershins about ! 

There sail nae mantle cross my back, 

No kaim gae in my hair, 
Neither sail coal nor candle-lio;ht 

Shine in my bower mair; 
Nor sail I choose anither love 

Until the day I dee, 
Sin' the Lawlands o' Holland 

Hae twinned my love and me. 

Noo baud your tongue, my daughter : 
Be still, and bide content ; 
195 



THE FLOWER OF BEAUTY. 

There 's ither lads in ,Galloway : 
Ye needna sair lament." 

there is nane in Galloway, 
There 's nane at a' for me ! 

1 never lo'ed a lad but ane, 
And he 's drowned in the sea. 



Anonymous. 



THE FLOWER OF BEAUTY. 

Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, 
Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through her hair ; 
Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy numbers 
Breathed to my sad lute amid the lonely air. 

Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming, 

To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above : 

O that, in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, 

I, too, could glide to the bower of my love ! 

Ah ! where the woodbines, with sleepy arms, have wound her, 
Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, 
Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, 
To her lost mate's call in the forests far away ! 

Come, then, my bird ! for the peace thou ever bearest, 
Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me ! 
Come ! this fond bosom, my faithfullest, my fairest, 
Bleeds with its death-wound — but deeper yet for thee. 

George Darley 

19fi 



POOR JACK. 

Go patter to lubbers and swabs, d'ye see, 

'Bout danger, and fear, and the like ; 
A tight-water boat and good sea-room give me. 

And it a'n't to a little I'll strike. 
Though the tempest topgallant-mast smack smooth should smite, 

And shiver each splinter of wood, 
Clear the deck, stow the yards, and bouse everything tight, 

And under reefed foresail we'll scud. 
Avast ! nor don't think me a milksop so soft 

To be taken for trifles aback ; 
For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft, 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! 

1 heard our good chaplain palaver one day 

About souls, heaven, mercy, and such ; 
And my timbers ! what lingo he'd coil and belay ! 

Why, 'twas just all as one as High Dutch ; 
For he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see, 

Without orders that come down below ; 
And a many fine things that proved clearly to me 

That Providence takes us in tow ; 
For, says he, do you mind me, let storms ne'er so oft 

Take the topsails of sailors aback, 
There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! 

197 



POOR JACK. 

I said to our Poll — for, d'ye see, she would cry, 

When last we weighed anchor for sea : 
What argufies snivelling, and piping your eye ? 

Why what a damned fool you must be ! 
Can't you see the world's wide, and there's room for us all, 

Both for seamen and lubbers ashore ? 
And if to old Davy I should go, friend Poll, 

You never will hear of me more. 
What then ? All's a hazard ; come, don't be so soft : 

Perhaps I may laughing come back ; 
For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft, 

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! 

D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch 

All as one as a piece of the ship, 
And with her brave the world, not offering to flinch 

From the moment the anchor's a-trip. 
As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides and ends, 

Naught's a trouble from a duty that springs ; 
For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's, 

And as for my life, 'tis the king's. 
Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft 

As for grief to be taken aback, 
For the same little cherub that sits up aloft 

Will look out a good berth for poor Jack ! 

Charles Dibdin. 



I9S 



WE PARTED IN SILENCE. 

We parted in silence, we parted by night, 

On the banks of that lonely river ; 
Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite, 

We met — and we parted forever! 
The night-bird sang, and the stars above 

Told many a touching story 
Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love, 

Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. 

We parted in silence ; our cheeks were wet 

With the tears that were past controlling ; 
We vowed Ave would never — no, never — , forget, 

And those vows at the time were consoling ; 
But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine 

Are as cold as that lonely river ; 
And that eye, the beautiful spirit's shrine, 

Has shrouded its fires forever. 

And now on the midnight sky I look, 
And my heart grows full of weeping ; 

Each star is to me a sealed book, 
Some tale of that loved one keeping. 

199 



THE SANDS O' DEE. 

We parted in silence, we parted in tears, 

On the banks of that lonely river; 
Rut the odor and bloom of those by-gone years 

Shall hang o'er its waters forever. 

Julia Crawford. 




THE SANDS O' DEE. 



" O Mary, go and call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home, 
200 



THE SANDS O' DEE. 

Across the sands o' Dee ! " 
The western wind was wild, and dank wi' loam, 
And all alone went she. 

The creeping tide came up along the sand, 
And o'er and o'er the sand, 
And round and round the sand, 
As far as eye could see ; 
The blinding mist came down and hid the land, 
And never home came she. 



" O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair. 
A tress o' golden hair, 
O' drowned maiden's hair, 
Above the nets at sea ? 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, 
Among _the stakes on Dee." 

They rowed her in across the rolling foam. 
The cruel, crawling foam, 
The cruel, hungry foam, 

\' 201 



THE RECONCILIATION. 

To her grave beside the sea; 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home 
Across the sands o' Dee. 

Charles Kingsley. 




Slfe#^^3S 




THE RECONCILIATION. 

As through the land at eve we went, 

And plucked the ripened ears, 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
O we fell out, I know not why, 
And kissed again with tears. 



For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years, 
There, above the little grave, 
O there, above the little grave, 
We kissed again with tears. 

Alfred Tennyson. 
202 



THE UAKKKT. 

O, it was here that Love his gifts bestowed 

On Youth's wild age ! 
Gladly once more I seek my youth's abode, 

In pilgrimage : 
Here my young mistress with her poet dared 

Reckless to dwell ; 
She was sixteen, I twenty — and we shared 

This attic cell. 

Yes, 'twas a garret ! be it known to all, 

Here was Love's shrine ; 
There read, in charcoal traced along the wall, 

The unfinished line. 
Here was the board where kindred hearts would blend 

The Jew can tell 
How oft I pawned my watch to feast a friend 

In attic cell. 

O, my Lisette's fair form could I recall 

With fairy wand ! 
There she would blind the window with her shawl : 

Bashful, yet fond. 

'20:\ 



THE GARRET. 

What though from whom she got her dress I've since 

Learned but too well ? 
Still in those days I envied not a prince, 

In attic cell. 

Here the glad tidings on our banquet burst, 

'Mid the bright bowls: 
Yes, it was here Marengo's triumph first 

Kindled our souls ! 
Bronze cannon roared ; France with redoubled might 

Felt her heart swell ; 
Proudly we drank our Consul's health that night 

In attic cell ! 

Dreams of my youthful days ! I'd freely give, 

Ere my life's close, 
All the dull days I'm destined yet to live, 

For one of those. , 

Where shall I now find raptures that were felt, 

Joys that befell, 
And hopes that dawned at twenty, when I dwelt 

In attic cell ? 

Pierre Jean dk Beranger (French.) 
Translation of Francis Mahony. (Father Prout.) 



204 




' MAUD MULLER. 

Maud Muller, on a summers day, 
Raked the meadow, sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 



Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 



•205 



MAUD MULLER. 

But when she glanced to the far-off town, 
White from its hill-slope looking down, 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing filled her breast : 

A wish, that she hardly dared to own, 
For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
Through the meadow, across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
And filled for him her small tin cup, 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

" Thanks!" said the Judge, u a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, 

Of the singing birds and the humming bees ; 

206 



MAUD MULLER. 



Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 



And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown, 
And her graceful ankles, bare and brown, 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Muller looked, and sighed : " Ah me ! 
That I the Judge's bride might be ! 

" He would dress me up in silks so fine, 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

" My father should wear a broadcloth coat ; 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

" I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, 

And the baby should have a new toy each day. 

u And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, 
And saw Maud Muller standing still: 

207 



MAUD MULLKK 




" A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet ; 

" And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 



" Would she were mine, and I to-day, 
Like her, a harvester of hay. 

208 



MAUD MULLER 

"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues ; 

" But low of cattle and song of birds, 
And health, and quiet, and loving words." 

But he thought of his sister, proud and cold, 
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on ; 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 
When he hummed in court an old love-tune : 

And the young girl mused beside the well, 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
He watched a picture come and go ; 

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, 
He longed for the wayside well instead ; 

y 209 



MAUD MULLEK. 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms. 
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms ; 

And the proud man sighed with a secret paii 
" Ah, that I were free again ! 

" Free as when I rode that day 

Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay.'' 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 
And many children played round her door. 

But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 




And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, 
210 



MAUD MULLER. 

And she heard the little spring-brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall, 

In the shade of the apple-trees again 
She saw a rider draw his rein, 

And, gazing down with a timid grace, 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls ; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 
The tallow candle an astral burned; 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw, 
And joy was duty, and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again, 
Saying only, "It might have been." 

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 

For rich repiner and household drudge ! 

God pity them both ! and pity us all, 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall : 
211 



O, WEEL BEFA' THE MAIDEN GAY. 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these : "It might have been ! " 

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes ; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Roll the stone from its grave away ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



O, WEEL BEFA' THE MAIDEN GAY. 

O, weel befa' the maiden gay, 

In cottage, bught, or penn ! 
An' weel befa' the bonny May 

That wons in yonder glen ! 
Wha lo'es the modest truth sae weel, 
Wha's aye sae kind, an' aye sae leal, 
An' pure as blooming asphodel 

Amang sae mony men ! 
O, weel befa' the bonny thing 

That wons in yonder glen ! 

'Tis sweet to hear the music float 

Alang the gloaming lea ; 
'Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note 

Come pealing frae the tree ; 
212 



O, WEEL BEFA' THE MAIDEN GAY. 

To see the lambkin's lightsome race, 
The dappled kid in wanton chase, 
The young deer cower in lonely place, 

Deep in his flowery den ; 
Bat sweeter far the bonny face 

That smiles in yonder glen ! 

O, had it no' been for the blush 

O' maiden's virgin flame, 
Dear Beauty never had been known, 

An' never had a name ; 
But aye sin' that dear thing o' blame 
Was modelled by an angel's frame, 
The power o' beauty reigns supreme 

O'er a' the sons o' men ; 
But deadliest far the sacred flame 

Burns in a lonely glen ! 

There's beauty in the violet's vest, 

There's hinny in the haw ; 
There's dew within the rose's breast, 

The sweetest o' them a' ; 
The sun will rise and set again, 
An' lace wi' burning gowd the main, 
The rainbow bend out-ower the plain, 

Sae lovely to the ken ; 
But lovelier far the fconny thing 

That wons in yonder glen ! 

James Hogg 



213 



THE LAND O' THE LEAL. 

I'm wearin' awa', Jean, 
Like snaw in a thaw, Jean ; 
I'm wearin' awa' 

To the Land o' the Leal. 
There's nae sorrow there, Jean ; 
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean 
The day is ever fair 

In the Land o' the Leal. 

You've been leal and true, Jean ; 
Your task's ended now, Jean; 
And I'll welcome you 

To the Land o' the Leal. 
Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean ! 
My soul langs to be free, Jean ; 
And angels wait on me 

To the Land o' the Leal. 

Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean, 
She was baith gude and fair, Jean ; 
And we grudged her sair 

To the Land o' the Leal ! 
But sorrow's sel' wears past, Jean, 
And joy's a-comin' fast, Jean : 
The joy that's aye to last, 

In the Land o' the Leal. 

214 



THE THREE SONS. 

A' our friends are gane, Jean ; 
We've lang been left alane, Jean ; 
We'll a' meet again 

In the Land o' the Leal. 
Now, fare ye weel, my ain Jean ! 
This world's care is vain, Jean ; 
We'll meet, and ay' be fain, 

In the Land o' the Leal. 

Caroline, Lady Nairn. 



THE THREE SONS. 

I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, 
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould. 
They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, 
That my child is grave, and wise of heart, beyond his childish years. 
I cannot say how this may be : I know his face is fair ; 
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air. 
I know his heart is kind and fond ; I know he loveth me ; 
But loveth yet his mother more, with grateful fervency. 
But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills his mind, 
The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find. 
Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk ; 
He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk. 
Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, 
But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. 
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext 
With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next. 

215 



THE THREE SONS. 

He kneels at his dear mother's knee ; she teacheth him to pray ; 
And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he 

B will say. 
O, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me, 
A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be ; 
And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, 
I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now. 

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; 
I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be, 
How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee. 
I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his brother's, keen, 
Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been ; 
But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling ; 
And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing. 
When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street, 
Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet. 
A playfellow is he to all ; and yet, with cheerful tone, 
Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. 
His presence is like sunshine, sent to gladden home and hearth, 
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. 
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove 
As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love; 
And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, 
God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him ! 

I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot tell, 
For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to dwell. 
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given ; 
And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went to live in Heaven. 
I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now, 

216 



ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER. 

Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow. 
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel, 
Are numbered with the secret things which God will not reveal. 
But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest, 
Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast. 
I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh, 
But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy forever fresh. 
I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings, 
And soothe him with a sono; that breathes of Heaven's divinest things. 
I know that we shall meet our babe, (his mother dear and I,) 
Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. 
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease ; 
Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. 
It may be that the Tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever; 
But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours forever. 
When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be, 
When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery, 
When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain, 
O, we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again ! 

John Moultrie. 



ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER. 

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, 
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; 
Round many western islands haA^e I been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne ; 

217 



ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER. 

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : 
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
When a new planet swims into his ken ; 




Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes 
He stared at the Pacific ; and all his men 
Looked at each other with a wild surmise — 
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 



John Keats. 



218 



THE VIOLET. 

O faint, delicious, spring-time violet, 

Thine odor, like a key, 
Turns noiselessly in memory's wards, to let 

A thought of sorrow free ! 

The breath of distant fields upon my brow 

Blows through that open door 
The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low 

And sadder than of yore. 

It nomes afar, from that beloved place, 

And that beloved hour, 
When life hung ripening in love's golden grace, 

Like grapes above a bower. 

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass ; 

The lark sings o'er my head, 
Drowned in the sky — O pass, ye visions, pass! 

I would that I were dead ! 

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door 

From which I ever flee ? 
O vanished Joy ! O Love, that art no more, 

Let my vexed spirit be ! 

O violet ! thine odor through my brain 

Hath searched, and stung to grief 

This sunny day, as if a curse did stain 

Thy velvet leaf. 

William Wetmore Story, 

•219 



ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL. 

Love in my bosom, like a bee, 

Dotli suck his sweet ; 
Now with his wings he plays with me, 

Now with his feet; 
Within mine eyes he makes his nest, 
His bed amidst my tender breast. ; 
My kisses are his daily feast ; 
And yet he robs me of my rest : 

Ah, wanton ! will ye ? 

And if I sleep, then percheth he 

With pretty flight, 
And makes his pillow of my knee 

The livelong night. 
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string ; 
He music plays if so I sing ; 
He lends me every lovely thing ; 
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting : 

Whist, wanton ! still ye ! 

Else I with roses every day 

Will whip you hence, 
And bind you when you long to play, 

For your offence ; 
220 



VIRTUE. 

Til shut mine eyes to keep you in, 
I'll make you fast it for your sin, 
I'll count your power not worth a pin : 
Alas ! what hereby shall I win 
If he gainsay me ? 

What if I beat the wanton boy, 

With many a rod ? 
He will repay me with annoy, 

Because a god. 
Then sit thou safely on my knee, 
And let thy bower my bosom be ; 
Lurk in mine eyes — I like of thee. 
O Cupid, so thou pity me, 

Spare not, but play thee ! 

Thomas Lodge. 



VIRTUE. 

Sweet day ! so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky ! 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; 
For thou must die. 

Sweet rose ! whose hue, angry and brave, 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 
Thy root is ever in its grave ; 

And thou must die. 
z 221 



SONG. 

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie, 
Thy music shows ye have your closes ; 
And all must die. 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 
Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 
But though the whole world turn to coal, 
Then chiefly lives. 

George Herbert. 



SONG. 

The world goes up, and the world goes down, 

And the sunshine follows the rain ; 
And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown 

Can never come over again, 
Sweet wife, 

No, never come over again. 

For woman is warm though man be cold, 

And the night will hallow the day ; 
Till the heart which at even was weary and old 
Can rise in the morning gay, 
Sweet wife, 
To its work in the morning gay. 

Charles Kingsley. 



222 



WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY. 

waly, waly, up the bank ! 

waly, waly, down the brae ! 
And waly, waly yon burn-side, 

Where I and my love wont to gae ! 

1 leaned my back unto an aik ; 

1 thocht it was a trusty tree ; 
But first it bowed, and syne it brak : 

Sae my true love did lightly me ! 

O waly, waly ! but love be bonny 
A little time, while it is new ; 

But when it 's auld it waxeth cauld, 
And fadeth awa' like the morning dew. 

O wherefore should I busk my heid ? 

Or wherefore should I kame my hair? 
For my true love has me forsook, 

And says he'll never loe me mair. 

Noo Arthur's Seat sail be my bed : 

The sheets sail ne'er be fyled by me ; 

Saint Anton's well sail be my drink, 
Sin' my true love 's forsaken me. 
223 



WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY. 

Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, 
And shake the green leaves aff the tree ? 

O gentle Death, when wilt thou come ? 
For of my life I'm weary. 

'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, 

Nor blawing snaw's inclemency ; 
'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, 

But my love's heart grown cauld to me. 

When we cam in by Glasgow town, 

We were a comely sight to see ; 
My love was clad in the black velvet, 

And I mysel' in cramasie. 

But had I wist, before I kissed, 
That love had been sae ill to win, 

I'd locked my heart in a case o' gowd, 
And pinned it wi' a siller pin. 

O, O ! if my young babe were born, 

And set upon the nurse's knee, 
And I mysel' were dead and gane, 

And the green grass growin' over me ! 

Anonymous. 



T£\ 



THE WELCOME. 

I. 

Come in the evening, or come in the morning; 

Come when you're looked for, or come without warning ; 

Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, 

And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you ! 

Light is my heart since the day we were plighted; 

Red is my cheek, that they told me was blighted ; 

The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, 

And the linnets are singing "True lovers don't sever!" 

n. 
I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them ! 
Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom. 
I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you ; 
I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. 

O ! your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer 

Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor. 

I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me ; 

Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to love me. 

in. 

We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie ; 
We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy ; 
We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, 
Till you ask of your darling, what gift you can give her. 
aa 225 



THE WELCOME. 



she'll whisper you — kt Love, as unchangeably beaming 
And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming ; ' 
Till the starlight of Heaven above us shall quiver, 
As our souls flow in one down Eternity's river. 




IV. 



bo come m 



the evening, or come in the morning; 



Come when you're looked for, or come without warning 



•>2G 



SONG. 

Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, 

And the ottener you come here the more I'll adore you ! 

Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; 

Red is my cheek, that they told me was blighted ; 

The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, 

And the linnets are singing " True lovers don't sever ! 

Thomas Davis. 



SONG. 

Gather ye rosebuds as ye may : 

Old Time is still a-flying. 
And this same flower that smiles to-day 

To-morroAv will be dying. 

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, 

The higher he's a-getting, 
The sooner will his race be run, 

And nearer he's to setting. 

That age is best which is the first, 
When youth and blood are warmer: 

But being spent, the worse and worst 
Times still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time, 

And, while ye may, go marry ; 
For having lost but once your prime, 

You may forever tarry. 

Robert Hkkhick. 
\ 2-27 



THE FISHERMEN. 

Three fishers went sailing out into the west, 

Out into the west as the sun went down ; 
Each thought of the woman who loved him the best, 

And the children stood watching them out of the town. 
For men must work, and women must weep ; 
And there's little to earn, and many to keep, 
Though the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the light-house tower, 

And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ; 

And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, 
And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown. 

But men must work, and women must weep, 

Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
And the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands, 

In the morning gleam as the tide went down; 
And the women are watching, and wringing their hands, 

For those who will never come back to the town. 
For men must work, and women must weep ; 
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep ; 
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning ! 

Charles Kingsley. 



228 



OLD TIMES. 

I. 

Old times, old times, the gay old times, 

When I was young and free, 
And heard the merry Easter-chimes 

Under the sally tree ! 
My Sunday palm beside me placed, 

My cross upon my hand, 
A heart at rest within my breast, 

And sunshine on the land ! 

Old times ! Old times ! 

ii. 

It is not that my fortunes flee, 

Nor that my cheek is pale, 
I mourn whene'er I think of thee, 

My darling native vale ! 
A wiser head I have, I know, 

Than when I loitered there ; 
But in my wisdom there is woe, 

And in my knowledge care. 

Old times ! Old times ! 

in. 
I've lived to know my share of joy, 
To feel my share of pain, 
229 



OLD TIMES. 

To learn that friendship's self can cloy, 

To love — and love in vain ; 
To feel a pang and wear a smile, 

To tire of other climes, 
To like my own unhappy isle, 

And sing the gay old times ! 

Old times ! Old times ! 

IV. 

And sure the land is nothing changed : 

The birds are singing still ; 
The flowers are springing where we ranged ; 

There's sunshine on the hill. 
The sally, waving o'er my head, 

Still sweetly shades my frame ; 
But ah! those happy days are fled, 

And I am not the same. 

Old times ! Old times ! 

v. 
O come again, ye merry times, 

Sweet, sunny, fresh, and calm ! 
And let me hear those Easter-chimes, 

And wear my Sunday palm. 
If I could cry away mine eyes, 
My tears would flow in vain ; 
If I could waste my heart in sighs, 
They'd never come again ! 

Old times! Old times! 

Gerald Griffin: 



230 




THE BROOK-SIDE. 

I wandered by the brook-side, 
I wandered by the mill ; 
I could not hear the brook flow, 
The noisy wheel was still ; 
There was no burr of grasshopper, 
No chirp of any bird ; 
But the beating of my own heart 
Was all the sound I heard. 
231 



THE BROOK-SIDE. 

I sat beneath the elm-tree ; 

[ watched the long, long shade, 

And, as it grew still longer, 

I did not feel afraid; 

For I listened for a footfall, 

I listened for a word; 

But the beating of my own heart 

Was all the sound I heard. 

He came not — no, he came not ; 
The night came on alone : 
The little stars sat, one by one, 
Each on his golden throne; 
The evening wind passed by my cheek, 
The leaves above were stirred ; 
But the beating of my own heart 
Was all the sound I heard. 

Fast silent tears were flowing, 
When something stood behind ; 
A hand was on my shoulder, 
I knew its touch was kind: 
It drew me nearer — nearer, 
We did not speak one word ; 
For the beating of our own hearts 
Was all the sound we heard. 

Richard Monckton Milxks. 



232 



THE SONG OF THE DYING. 

We meet 'neatli the sounding rafter, 

And the walls around are bare ; 
As they shout to our peals of laughter, 

It seems that the dead are there. 
But stand to your glasses, steady ! 

We drink to our comrades' eyes : 
Quaff a cup to the dead already, 

And hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Not here are the goblets glowing, 

Not here is the vintage sweet ; 
"Tis cold as our hearts are growing, 

And dark as the doom we meet. 
But stand to your glasses, steady ! 

And soon shall our pulses rise : 
A cup to the dead already ; 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Not a sigh for the lot that darkles, 
Not a tear for the friends that sink ; 

We'll fall midst the winecup's sparkles, 
As mute as the wine we drink. 

:u 233 



THE SONG OF THE DYING. 

So ! stand to your glasses, steady ! 

'Tis this that the respite buys : 
One cup to the dead already ; 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Time was when we frowned at others ; 

We thought we were wiser then. 
Ha ! ha ! let them think of their mothers 

Who hope to see them again. 
No ! stand to your glasses, steady ! 

The thoughtless are here the wise : 
A cup to the dead already ; 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

There's many a hand that's shaking, 

There's many a cheek that's sunk ; 
But soon, though our hearts are breaking, 

They'll burn with the wine we've drunk. 
So ! stand to your glasses, steady ! 

'Tis here the revival lies : 
A cup to the dead already ; 

And hurrah for the next that dies ! 

There's a mist on the glass congealing : 

'Tis the hurricane's fiery breath ; 
And thus does the warmth of feeling 

Turn ice in the grasp of Death. 
Ho ! stand to your glasses, steady ! 

For a moment the vapor flies : 
A cup to the dead already ; 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 
234 



A PETITION TO TIME. 

Who dreads to the dust returning ? 

Who shrinks from the sable shore, 
Where the high and haughty yearning 

Of the soul shall sting no more ? 
Ho ! stand to your glasses, steady ! 

The world is a world of lies : 
A cup to the dead already ; 

Hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Cut off from the land that bore us, 

Betrayed by the land we find, 
Where the brightest have gone before us, 

And the dullest remain behind ! 
Stand ! stand to your glasses, steady ! 

'Tis all we have left to prize : 
A cup to the dead already ; 

And hurrah for the next that dies ! 

Captain Dowling, East India Company's Service. 



A PETITION TO TIME. 

Touch us gently, Time ! 

Let us glide adown thy stream 
Gently — as we sometimes glide 

Through a quiet dream. 
Humble voyagers are we : 
Husband, wife, and children three ; 
(One is lost — an angel, fled 
To the azure overhead !) 
235 



THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. 

Touch us gently, Time ! 

We've not proud nor soaring wings : 
Our ambition, our content, 

Lies in simple things. 
Humble voyagers are we, 
O'er life's dim, unsounded sea, 
Seeking only some calm clime : 
Touch us gently, gentle Time ! 

Bryan Waller Procter. (Barry Cornwall.) 



THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. 

The snow had begun in the gloaming, 

And busily, all the night, 
Had been heaping field and highway 

With a silence deep and white. 

Every pine and fir and hemlock 
Wore ermine too dear for an earl, 

And the poorest twig on the elm-tree 
Was ridged inch-deep with pearl. 

From sheds new-roofed with carrara 
Game chanticleer's muffled crow ; 

The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down ; 
And still wavered down the snow. 

I stood and watched from my window 

The noiseless work of the sky, 
And the sudden flurries of snow birds, 

Like brown leaves whirling by. 
236 



JtL^ &~ A',f y /C^/r 

/L~. &-& iy ~%Z7 fa* irt J/faj yfe, 

7!Uf by /cu*. a*v w*~ £ lis &&> 




TPIE FIRST SNOW-FALL. 

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 

Where a little headstone stood : 
How the flakes were folding it gently, 

As did robins the Babes in the Wood. 

Up spoke our own little Mabel, 

Saying " Father, who makes it snow ? " 

And I told of the good All-father 
Who cares for us here below. 

Again I looked at the snow-fall, 

And thought of the leaden sky 
That arched o'er our first great sorrow 

When that mound was heaped so high. 

I remembered the gradual patience 
That fell from that cloud like snow, 

Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
The scar of our buried woe. 

And again to the child I whispered 

" The snow that husheth all, 
Darling, the merciful Father 

Alone can bid it fall ! " 

Then with eyes that saw not I kissed her. 
And she, kissing back, could not know 

That my kiss was given to her sister 
Folded close under deepening snow. 

James Russell Lowell 



237 



LITTLE BELL. 

He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

" The Ancient Mariner." 

Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray: 
44 Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, 

What's your name?" quoth he; 
44 What's your name ? O stop, and straight unfold, 
Pretty maid with showery curls of gold." 

44 Little Bell," said she. 



Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks, 
Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks : 

44 Bonny bird," quoth she, 
44 Sing me your best song before I go." 

Here's the very finest song I know, 

Little Bell," said he. 



cc 



And the blackbird piped ; you never heard 
Half so gay a song from any bird, 

Full of quips and wiles : 
Now so round and rich, now soft and slow ; 
All for love of that sweet face below, 

Dimpled o'er with smiles. 
238 



LITTLE BELL. 

And the while the bonny bird did pour 
His full heart out freely, o'er and o'er, 

'Neath the morning skies, 
In the little childish heart below 
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, 
And shine forth in happy overflow 

From the blue, bright eyes. 

Down the dell she tripped, and through the glade; 
Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, 

And from out the tree 
Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear; 
While bold blackbird piped that all might hear, 

-"Little Bell!" piped he. 

Little Bell sat down amid the fern ; 

" Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return : 

Bring me nuts ! " quoth she. 
Up, away the frisky squirrel hies, 
Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes, 

And ado'wn the tree, 
Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, 
In the little lap dropped one by one ; 
Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun ! 

" Happy Bell ! " pipes he. 

Little Bell looked up and down the glade: 
" Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid, 

Come and share with me ! " 
Down came squirrel, eager for his fare, 
Down came bonny blackbird I declare ; 
239 



LITTLE BELL. 

Little Bell gave each his honest share : 
Ah, the merry three ! 

And the while these frolic playmates twain 
Piped, and frisked from bough to bough again, 

'Neath the morning skies, 
In the little childish heart below 
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, 
And shine out in happy overflow, 

From the blue, bright eyes. 

By her snow-white cot at close of day, 
Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms, to pray. 

Very calm and clear 
Rose the praying voice to where, unseen, 
In blue heaven, an angel shape serene 

Paused awhile to hear. 

" What good child is this," the angel said, 
" That, with happy heart, beside her bed 

Prays so lovingly ? " 
Low and soft, O very low and soft ! 
Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft: 

" Bell, dear Bell ! " crooned he. 

" Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair 
Murmured, " God doth bless with angels' care ; 

Child, thy bed shall be 
Folded safe from harm. — Love deep and kind 
Shall watch around, and leave good gifts behind, 

Little Bell, for thee." Thomas Westwood. 

240 








SIR MARMADUKE. 



Sir Marmaduke was a hearty knight : 

Good man ! old man ! 
He's painted standing bolt upright, 

With his hose rolled over his knee ; 
His periwig's as white as chalk, 
And on his fist he holds a hawk ; 

And he looks like the head 
Of an ancient family. 

cc -Mi 



I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 

His dining-room was long and wide : 

Good man ! old man ! 
His spaniels lay by the fireside; 

And in other parts, d'ye see, 
Crossbows, tobacco-pipes, old hats, 
A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats ; 

And he looked like the head 
Of an ancient family. 

He never turned the poor from the gate : 

Good man ! old man ! 
But was always ready to break the pate 

Of his country's enemy. 
What knight could do a better tinner 
Than serve the poor, and fight for his king? 
And so may every head 
Of an ancient family. 

George Colman, "the youngei, 



I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 

I remember, I remember 
The house where I was born, 
The little window, where the sun 
Came peeping in at morn ; 
He never came a wink too soon, 
Nor brought too long a day; 
But now, I often wish the night 
Had borne my breath away ! 
242 



I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 

I remember, I remember 
The roses, red and white, 
The violets, and the lily-cups, 
Those flowers made of light ! 
The lilacs, where the robin built, 
And where my brother set 
The laburnum on liis birthday ; 
The tree is living yet ! 

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing, 

And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the win<j ; 

My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now, 

And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow ! 

I remember, I remember 

The fir-trees, dark and high ; 

I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky. 

It was a childish ignorance ; 

But now 'tis little joy 

To know I'm farther off from Heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 

Thomas Hood. 



24:5 



SONG OF THE SILENT LAND 

Into the Silent Land ! 
Ah ! who shall lead ns thither ? 
Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, 
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand ; 
Who leads us with a gentle hand 
Thither, O thither ! 

Into the Silent Land ? 

Into the Silent Land ! 
To you, ye boundless regions 
Of all perfection, tender morning-visions 
Of beauteous souls, the Future's pledge and band! 
Who in Life's battle firm doth stand 
Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms 

Into the Silent Land ! 

O Land! O Land! 
For all the broken-hearted, 
The mildest herald by our fate allotted 
Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand, 
To lead us with a gentle hand 
Into the land of the great departed, 
Into the Silent Land ! 

Johanx Gaudenz von Salis. (German.) 
Translation of Henuy Wadswokth Longfellow. 

244 



THE ONE GRAY HAIR. 

The wisest of the wise 
Listen to pretty lies, 

And love to hear them told ; 
Doubt not that Solomon 
Listened to many a one : 
Some in his youth, and more when he grew old. 

I never sat among 

The choir of Wisdom's song, 

But pretty lies loved I 
As much as any king: 
When youth was on the wing, 
And (must it then be told?) when youth had quite gone by. 

Alas ! and I have not 
The pleasant hour forgot, 

When one pert lady said 
" O Landor ! I am quite 
Bewildered with affright : 
I see ("sit quiet now !) a white hair on your head ! " 

Another, more benign, 
Drew out that hair of mine, 
And in her own dark hair 

cc* 245 



THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. 

Pretended she had found 
That one, and twirled it round : 
Fair as she was, she never was so fair. 

Walter Savagk L an dor. 



THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. 

Shall I, wasting in despair, 
Die, because a woman's fair ? 
Or make pale my cheeks with Care, 
'Cause another's rosy are ? 
Be she fairer than the day, 
Or the flowery meads in May, 
If she be not so to me, 
What cai'e I how fair she be ? 

Shall my foolish heart be pined 
'Cause I see a woman kind ? 
Or a well-disposed nature 
Joined with a lovely feature ? 
Be she meeker, kinder, than 
Turtle-dove or pelican, 

If she be not so to me, 

What care I how kind she be ? 

Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for her love ? 
Or her well-deser vinous known 
Make me quite forget mine own ? 
24 6 



THE OLD CONTINENTALS. 

Be she with that goodness blest 
Which may merit name of best, 

If she be not such to me, 

What care I how good she be? 

'Cause her fortune seems too high, 

Shall I play the fool and die ? 

Those that bear a noble mind 

Where they want of riches find 

Think what with them they would do 

That without them dare to woo ; 
And unless that mind I see, 
What care I how great she be ? 

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 

I will ne'er the more despair. 

If she love me, this believe : 

I will die ere she shall grieve. 

If she slight me when I woo, 

I can scorn, and let her go ; 
For if she be not for me, 
What care I for whom she be ? 

George Wither. 



THE OLD CONTINENTALS 

In their ragged regimentals 
Stood the old Continentals, 

Yielding not, 
While the grenadiers were lunging, 

247 



THE OLD CONTINENTALS. 

And like hail fell the plunging 
Cannon-shot ; 
When the files 
Of the Isles, 
From the smoky night-encampment, bore the banner of the ram- 
pant 

Unicorn ; 
And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the drummer, 
Through the morn ! 

Then with eyes to the front all, 
And with guns horizontal, 

Stood our sires ; 
While the balls whistled deadly, 
And in streams flashing redly, 

Blazed the fires ; 

As the roar 

On the shore, 
Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres 

Of the plain ; 
And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder, 

Cracking amain ! 

Now like smiths at their forges 
Worked the red St. George's 

Cannoneers ; 
And the "villainous saltpetre v 
Rang a fierce, discordant metre 

Round our ears. 

As the swift 

Storm-drift, 

248 



THE OLD CONTINENTALS. 

With hot sweeping anger, came the horse-guards' clangor 

On our flanks ; 
Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire 

Through the ranks ! 




Then the bareheaded Colonel 
Galloped through the white infernal 

Powder-cloud ; 
And his broadsword was swinging, 
249 



A CHARADE. 



And his brazen throat was ringing, 



Trumpet-loud. 

Then the blue 

Bullets flew, 
And the trooper-jackets reddened at the touch of the leaden 

Rifle-breath ; 
And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder, 

Hurling death ! 

Guy Humphrey McMaster. 




A CHARADE. 



Come from my First — ay, come ! 

The battle-dawn is nigh ; 
And the screaming trump and the thundering drum 



Are callincr thee to die. 



250 



A CHARADE. 

Fight as thy fathers fought, 

Fall as thy fathers fell ! 
Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought : 

So — forward ! and farewell ! 

Toll ye my Second — toll ! 

Fling high the flambeau's light, 
And sing the hymn for a parted soul, 

Beneath the silent night. 
The wreath upon his head, 

The cross upon his breast, 
Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed : 

So — take him to his rest! 

Call ye my Whole — ay, call 

The lord of lute and lay, 
And let him greet the sable pall 

With a noble song to-day! 
Go, call him by his name: 

No fitter hand may crave 
To light the flame of a soldier's fame 

On the turf of a soldier's grave. 

WiNTHitop Mackworth Praed. 



251 



THE FADED VIOLET. 

What thought is folded in thy leaves ! 

What tender thought, what speechless pain ! 
I hold thy faded lips to mine, 

Thou darling of the April rain. 

I hold thy faded lips to mine, 

Though scent and azure tint are fled ; 

O ! dry, mute lips, ye are the type 
Of something in me cold and dead : 

Of something wilted like thy leaves, 

Of fragrance flown, of beauty dim ; 
Yet, for the love of those white hands 

That found thee by a river's brim, 

That found thee when thy sunny mouth 

Was purpled, as with drinking wine : 
For love of her who love forgot, 

I hold thy faded lips to mine. 

That thou shouldst live when I am dead, 
When hate is dead for me, and wrong, 

For this I use my subtlest art, 
For this I fold thee in my song. 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 



252 



O! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM. 

O ! snatched away in beauty's bloom, 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves, the earliest of the year, 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom. 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 

And feed deep thought with many a dream, 
And lingering pause, and lightly tread: 
Fond wretch I as if her step disturbed the dead. 

Away ! we know that tears are vain, 

That Death nor heeds nor hears distress : 

Will this unteach us to complain, 

Or make one mourner weep the less ? 

And thou, who tell'st me to forget, 

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 

Lord Byron. 



Di) 253 



TO PRIMROSES, 

FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. 

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears 
Speak grief in you, 
Who were but born 
Just as the modest morn 
Teemed her refreshing dew? 
Alas ! ye have not known that shower 
That mars a flower, 
Nor felt the unkind 
Breath of a blasting wind ; 
Nor are ye worn with years, 
Or warped, as we, 
Who think it strange to see 
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, 
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. 

Speak, whimpering younglings ! and make known 
The reason why 

Ye droop and weep. 
Is it for want of sleep, 
Or childish lullaby? 
Or that ye have not seen as yet 
The violet? 

Or brought a kiss 
From that sweetheart to this? 
254 



TO BLOSSOMS. 

No, no ; this sorrow, shown 

By your tears shed, 

Would have this lecture read: 
" That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, 
Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth/ 

Robert Herrick. 



TO BLOSSOMS. 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 

Why do ye fall so fast? 

Your date is not so past 
But you may stay yet here awhile, 

To blush and gently smile, 
And go at last. 

What! were ye born to be 

An hour or half's delight, 

And so to bid good-night? 
'Tis pity Nature brought ye forth, 

Merely to show your worth, 
And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave ; 
And, after they have shown their pride 
Like you awhile, they glide 
Into the grave. 

Robert Herrick. 
255 



TO DAFFODILS. 

Fair daffodils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon ; 
As yet the early-rising sun 

Has not attained his noon : 
Stay, stay 

Until the hastening clay 
Has run 

But to the even-song ; 
And, having prayed together, we 

Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay as you : 

We have as short a Spring, 
As quick a growth to meet decay, 
As you, or anything. 

We die, 
As your hours do ; and dry 

Away 
Like to the Summer's rain, 
Or as the pearls of morning dew : 



Ne'er to be found again, 



Robert Hkrrick. 



.2*6 



(#//' 




HOW'S MY BOY? 



" Ho, sailor of the sea ! 

How's my boy — my boy?" 

" What's your boy's name, good wife, 

And in what good ship sailed he ? " 



" My boy John, 

He that went to sea ; 

What care I for the ship, sailor ? 

My boy's my boy to me. 



25; 



HOW'S MY BOYV 

" You come back from sea, 

And not know my John ? 

I might as well have asked some landsman. 

Yonder down in the town ; 

There's not an ass in all the parish 

But he knows my John. 

" How's my boy — my boy ? 

And unless you let me know, 

I'll swear you are no sailor: 

Blue jacket or no, 

Brass buttons or no, sailor, 

Anchor and crown or no. 

Sure his ship was the 4 Jolly Briton.' ' 

" Speak low, woman, speak low ! " 

" And why should I speak low, sailor, 

About my own boy John? 

If I was loud as I am proud 

I'd sing him over the town. 

Why should I speak low, sailor?" 

" That good ship went down." 

" How's my boy — my boy ? 
What care I for the ship, sailor ; 
I was never aboard her. 
Be she afloat or be she aground, 
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound 
Her owners can afford her ! 
I say, how's my John ? " 
44 Every man on board went down, 
Every man aboard her." 
258 



TO THE HUMBLEBEE. 

" How's my boy — my boy ? 
What care I for the men, sailor ? 
I'm not their mother. 
How's my boy — my boy? 
Tell me of him and no other. 
How's my boy — my boy?" 



Sydney Dohkll. 



TO THE HUMBLEBEE. 

Burly, dozing, humblebee ! 
Where thon art is clime for me ; 
Let them sail for Porto Rique, 
Far-off heats through seas to seek, 
I will follow thee alone, 
Thou animated torrid zone ! 
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, 
Let me chase thy waving lines ; 
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 
Singing over shrubs and vines. 

Flower-bells, 

Honeyed cells : 

These the tents 

Which he frequents. 

Insect lover of the sun, 
Joy of thy dominion ! 
Sailor of the atmosphere, 
Swimmer through the waves of air, 

KE* 250 



TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. 

Voyager of light and noon, 
Epicurean of June ! 
Wait, I prithee, till I come 
Within ear-shot of thy hum ; 
All without is martyrdom. 

When the south wind, in May days, 

With a net of shining haze 

Silvers the horizon wall, 

And, with softness touching all, 

Tints the human countenance 

With a color of romance, 

And, infusing suhtile heats, 

Turns the sod to violets : 

Thou, in sunny solitudes, 

Rover of the underwoods, 

The green silence dost displace 

With thy mellow, breezy bass. 

Hot Midsummer's petted crone ! 
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone, 
Telling of countless sunny hours, 
Long days, and solid banks of flowers ; 
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound, 
In Indian wildernesses found ; 
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, 
Firmest cheer, and birdlike pleasure. 

Aught unsavory or unclean 
Hath my insect never seen ; 

200 



INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP 

But violets, and bilberry-bells, 
Maple sap, and daffodels, 
Clover, catchfiy, adder's-tongue, 
And brier-roses, dwelt among : 
All beside was unknown waste, 
All was picture as he passed. 

Wiser far than human seer, 
Yellow-breeched philosopher ! 
Seeing only what is fair, 

Sipping only what is sweet, 
Thou dost mock at fate and care, 

Leave the chaff and take the wheat. 
When the fierce northwestern blast 
Cools sea and land so far and fast, 
Thou already slumberest deep ; 
Woe and want thou canst outsleep : 
Want and woe, which torture us, 
Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. 

I. 
You know we French stormed Ratisbon. 

A mile or so away, 
On a little mound, Napoleon 

Stood on our storming-day : 



2fi i 



INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. 

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 

Legs wide, arms locked behind: 
As if to balance the prone brow, 

Oppressive with its mind. 

II. 

Just as perhaps he mused " My plans, 

That soar, to earth may fall, 
Let once my army-leader, Lannes, 

Waver at yonder wall," 
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew 

Until he reached the mound. 

in. 

Then off there flung in smiling joy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy.: 

You hardly could suspect, 
(So tight he kept his lips compressed, 

Scarce any blood came through,) 
You looked twice, ere you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

IV. 

" Well," cried he, " Emperor, by God's grace 

We've got you Ratisbon ! 
The Marshal's in the market-place, 

And you'll be there anon, 



2G2 



A SPINNING-WHEEL SONG. 

To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

Where I, to heart's desire, 
Perched him ! " The chief's eye flashed : his plans 

Soared up again like fire. 

v. 

The chief's eye flashed; but presently 

Softened itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother-eagle's eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes : 
44 You're wounded ! " " Nay?" his soldier's pride 

Touched to the quick, he said : 
" I'm killed, sire ! " And, his chief beside, 

Smiling, the boy fell dead. 

Robert Bkownixg. 



A SPINNING- WHEEL SONG. 

Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning ; 

Close by the window young Eileen is spinning ; 

Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting, 

Is croning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting. 

" Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." 

44 'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping." 

44 Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." 

44 'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying.'' 

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, 

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring ; 

263 



A SPINNING-WHEEL SONG. 

Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, 

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. 




» 4 What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder ? " 
" 'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under." 
" What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on. 
And singing all wrong that old song of c The Coolun ? ' " 
There's a form at the casement — the form of her true love ; 
And he whispers, with face bent, " I'm waiting for you, love. 

264 



MY LOVE. 

Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly ; 

We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining brightly." 

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, 

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring ; 

Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, 

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. 

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers, 
Steals up from her seat, longs to go — and yet lingers; 
A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother, 
Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other. 
Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round ; 
Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound. 
Noiseless and light to the lattice above her 
The maid steps — then leaps to the arms of her lover. 

Slower — and slower — and slower the wheel swings ; 

Lower — and lower — and lower the reel rings. 

Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving, 

Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving. 

John Francis Waller. 



MY LOVE. 

I. 
Not as all other women are 
Is she that to my soul is dear : 
Her glorious fancies come from far, 
Beneath the silver evening-star ; 
And yet her heart is ever near. 
FF 2 Go 



MY LOVE. 

IT. 
Great feelings hath she of her own, 
Which lesser souls may never know ; 
God giveth them to her alone, 
And sweet they are as any tone 
Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. 

in. 
Yet in herself she dwelleth not, 
Although no home were half so fair : 
No simplest duty is forgot ; 
Life hath no dim and lowly spot 
That doth not in her sunshine share. 

IV. 

She doeth little kindnesses, 

Which most leave undone, or despise ; 

For naught that sets one heart at ease, 

And giveth happiness or peace, 

Is low-esteemed in her eyes. 

V. 
She hath no scorn of common things ; 
And, though she seem of other birth, 
Round us her heart entwines and clings, 
And patiently she folds her wings 
To tread the humble paths of earth. 

VI. 

Blessing she is : God made her so : 
And deeds of week-day holiness 
266 



MY LOVE. 

Fall from her noiseless as the snow; 
Nor hath she ever chanced to know 
That aught were easier than to bless. 

VII. 

She is most fair, and thereunto 
Her life doth rightly harmonize ; 
Feeling or thought that was not true 
Ne'er made less beautiful the blue 
Unclouded heaven of her eyes. 

VIII. 

She is a woman — one in whom 
The spring-time of her childish years 
Hath never lost its fresh perfume, 
Though knowing well that life hath room 
For many blights and many tears. 

IX. 
I love her with a love as still 
As a broad river's peaceful might, 
Which, by high tower and lowly mill, 
Goes wandering at its own will, 
And yet doth ever flow aright. 

x. 

And, on its full, deep breast serene, 

Like quiet isles my duties lie ; 

It flows around them and between, 

And makes them fresh and fair and green : 

Sweet homes wherein to live and die. 

James Russell Lowell. 
ff* 267 




SONG. 

Drink ye to her that each loves best, 

And if you nurse a flame 
That's told but to her mutual breast, 

We will not ask her name. 



Enough, while Memory, tranced and glad, 

Paints silently the fair, 
That each should dream of joys he's had, 

Or yet may hope to share. 



268 



MADAME LA MARQUISE. 

Yot far, far hence be jest or boast 

From hallowed thoughts so dear ; 
But drink to her that each loves most, 

As she would love to hear. 

Thomas Campbell 




MADAME LA MARQUISE. 

The folds of her wine-dark violet dress 

Glow over the sofa, fall on fall, 
As she sits in the air of her loveliness 

With a smile for each and for all. 

Half of her exquisite face in the shade 

Which o'er it the screen in her soft hand flings ; 

Through the gloom glows her hair in its odorous braid 
In the firelight are sparkling her rings. 
269 



MADAME LA MARQUISE. 

As she leans, the slow smile, half shut up in her eyes, 
Beams the sleepy, long, silk-soft lashes beneath ; 

Through her crimson lips, stirred by her faint replies, 
Breaks one gleam of her pearl-white teeth. 

As she leans — where your eye, by her beauty subdued, 
Droops — from under warm fringes of broidery white 

The slightest of feet, silken-slippered, protrude 
For one moment ; then slip out of sight. 

As I bend o'er her bosom, to tell her the news, 

The faint scent of her hair, the approach of her cheek, 

The vague warmth of her breath, all my senses suffuse 
With herself; and I tremble to speak. 

So she sits in the curtained, luxurious light 

Of that room, with its porcelain, and pictures, and flowers, 
When the dark day's half done, and the snow nutters white 

Past the windows, in feathery showers. 

All without is so cold, 'neath the low leaden sky ! 

Down the bald, empty street, like a ghost, the gendarme 
Stalks surly ; a distant carriage hums by. 

All within is so bright and so warm ! 

Here we talk of the schemes and the scandals of court : 
How the courtesan pushes, the charlatan thrives. 

We put horns on the heads of our friends, just for sport ; 
Put intrigues in the heads of their wives. 

Her warm hand, at parting, so strangely thrilled mine, 
That at dinner I scarcely remark what they say, 

270 



MADAME LA MARQUISE. 

Drop the ice in my soup, spill the salt in my wine, 
Then go yawn at my favorite play. 

But she drives after noon : then's the time to behold her, 
With her fair face half hid, like a ripe peeping rose, 

'Neath that veil — o'er the velvets and furs which infold her 
Leaning back with a queenly repose, 

As she glides up the sunlight ! You'd say she was made 
To loll back in a carriage, all day, with a smile ; 

And at dusk, on a sofa, to lean in the shade 
Of soft lamps, and be wooed for a while. 

Could we find out her heart through that velvet and lace ! 

Can it beat without ruffling her sumptuous dress ? 
She will show us her shoulder, her bosom, her face ; 

But what the heart's like we must guess. 

With live women and men to be found in the world, 

(Live with sorrow and sin, live with pain and with passion,) 

Who could live with a doll — though its locks should be curled, 
And its petticoats trimmed in the fashion ? 

'Tis so fair ! — would my bite, if I bit it, draw blood ? 

Will it cry if I hurt it? or scold if I kiss? 
Is it made, with its beauty, of wax or of wood ? 

— Is it worth while to guess at all this ? 

Robert Bclwer Lyttox. 



'Ill 



BEWARE : 

I know a maiden fair to see : 

Take care ! 
She can both false and friendly be : 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not : 
She is fooling thee ! 

She lias two eyes, so soft and brown : 

Take care ! 
She gives a side-glance and looks down : 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not : 
She is fooling thee ! 

And she has hair of a golden hue : 

Take care ! 
And what she says it is not true : 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not : 
She is fooling thee ! 

She has a bosom as white as snow : 

Take care .' 
She knows how much it is best to show 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not ; 
She i> fooling thee ! 



SONG. 

She gives thee a garland woven fair : 

Take care ! 
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear : 
Beware ! Beware ! 
Trust her not ; 
She is fooling thee ! 

Anonymous. (German.) 
Translation of Henry Wadswokth Longfellow. 



SONG. 



Why so pale and wan, fond lover ? 

Prithee, why so pale ? 
Will, when looking well can't move her, 

Looking ill prevail ? 

Prithee, why so pale ? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner ? 

Prithee, why so mute ? 
Will, when speaking well can't win her, 

Saying nothing do't ? 

Prithee, why so mute ? 

Quit, quit, for shame ! this will not move, 

This cannot take her ; 
If of herself she will not love, 
Nothing can make her : 
The Devil take her ! 

Sir John Suckling. 
gg 273 



LEFT BEHTND. 

It was the autumn of the year ; 
The strawberry-leaves were red and sere 
October's airs were fresh and chill ; 
When, pausing on the windy hill, 
The hill that overlooks the sea, 
You talked confidingly to me : 
Me, whom your keen, artistic sight 
Has not yet learned to read aright, 
Since I have veiled my heart from you, 
And loved you better than you knew. 

You told me of your toilsome past : 
The tardy honors won at last, 
The trials borne, the conquests gained, 
The longed-for boon of Fame attained ; 
I knew that every victory 
But lifted you away from me, 
That every step of high emprise 
But left me lowlier in your eyes ; 
I watched the distance as it grew, 
And loved you better than you knew. 

You did not see the bitter trace 
Of anguish sweep across my face ; 
You did not hear my proud heart beat, 
Heavy and slow, beneath your feet : 

■274 



LEFT BEHIND 

You thought of triumphs still unwon, 
Of glorious deeds as yet undone ; 
And I, the while you talked to me, 
I watched the gulls float lonesomely, 
Till lost amid the hungry blue ; 
And loved you better than you knew. 

You walk the sunny side of fate ; 
The wise world smiles, and calls you great ; 
The golden fruitage of success 
Drops at your feet in plenteousness ; 
And you have blessings manifold : 
Renown and power, and friends and gold , 
They build a wall between us twain, 
Which may not be thrown down again. 
Alas ! for I, the long years through, 
Have loved you better than you knew. 

Your life's proud aim, your art's high truth, 
Have kept the promise of your youth ; 
And while you won the crown, which now 
Breaks into bloom upon your brow, 
My soul cried strongly out to you 
Across the ocean's yearning blue, 
While, unremembered and afar, 
I watched you, as I watch a star, 
Through darkness struggling into view ; 
And loved you better than you knew. 

I used to dream, in all these years 
Of patient faith, and silent tears, 

275 



TAKE, O TAKE, THOSE LIPS AWAY. 

That Love's strong hand would put aside 

The barriers of place and pride, 

Would reach the pathless darkness through, 

And draw me softly up to you ; 

But that is past. If you should stray 

Beside my grave, some future day, 

Perchance the violets o'er my dust 

Will half betray their buried trust, 

And say, their blue eyes full of dew, 

" She loved you better than you knew." 

Florence Percy, 



TAKE, O TAKE, THOSE LIPS AWAY. 

Take, O take, those lips away, 

That so sweetly were forsworn ! 
And those eyes, the break of day, 

Lights that do mislead the morn 1 
But my kisses bring again : 
Seals of love, though sealed in vain. 

Hide, O hide, those hills of snow, 
Which thy frozen bosom bears, 
On whose tops the pinks that grow 

Are yet of those that April wears ! 
But first set my poor heart free, 
Bound in those icy chains by thee. 

Shakspeare, and John Fletcher. 
27'J 



OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAVV 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 

I dearly like the west ; 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best. 
There wildwoods grow, and rivers row, 

And monie a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair ; 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air ; 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me o' my Jean. 

Robert Burxs. 



i?77 



OLD- 

By the wayside, on a mossy stone, 
Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing ; 

Oft I marked him sitting there alone, 
All the landscape like a page perusing : 
Poor, unknown, 

By the wayside, on a mossy stone ! 

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimmed hat 
-Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding ; 

Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat ; 
Oaken staff, his feeble hand upholding : 
There he sat ! 

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimmed hat. 

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, 
No one sympathizing, no one heeding, 

None to love him for his thin, gray hajr, 
And the furrows all so mutely pleading 
Age and care : 

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. 

It was Summer, and we went to school, 

Dapper country lads, and little maidens ; 
Taught the motto of the " dunce's stool," 

278 



OLD. 

Its grave import still my fancy ladens 
« Here's a fool ! " 
It was Summer, and we went to school. 






s^-a 




When the stranger seemed to mark our play, 
Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted. 
I remember well, too well, that day ! 
Oftentimes the tears unbidden started, 
Would not stay, 
When the stranger seemed to mark our play. 
2 79 



OLD. 

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell ; 

Ah ! to me her name was always Heaven ! 
She besought him all his grief to tell : 

(I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) 
Isabel ! 
One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. 

Angel, said he sadly, I am old; 

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow ; 
Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told. 

Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow ; 
Down it rolled ! 
Angel, said he sadly, I am old. 

I have tottered here to look once more 
On the pleasant scene where I delighted 

In the careless, happy days of yore, 

Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 
To the core : 

I have tottered here to look once more. 

All the picture now to me how dear ! 

E'en this gray old rock, where I am seated, 
Is a jewel worth my journey here ; 

Ah, that such a scene must be completed 
With a tear ! 
AH the picture now to me how dear ! 

Old stone school-house ! — it is still the same : 

There's the very step I so oft mounted ; 
There's the window creaking in its frame, 

280 



OLD. 

And the notches that I cut and counted 
For the game : 
Old stone school-house ! — it is still the same. 

In the cottage, yonder, I was born ; 

Long my happy home, that humble dwelling ; 
There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn; 

There the spring, with limpid nectar swelling : 
Ah, forlorn ! 
In the cottage, yonder, I was born. 

Those two gateway sycamores you see 
Then were planted just so far asunder 

That long well-pole from the path to free, 
And the wagon to pass safely under : 
Ninety- three ! 

Those two gateway sycamores you see. 

There's the orchard where we used to climb 
When my mates and I were boys together, 

Thinking nothing of the flight of time, 

Fearing naught but work and rainy weather : 
Past its prime ! 

There's the orchard where we used to climb. 

There the rude, three-cornered chestnut rails, 

Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing, 

Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails 
In the crops of buckwheat we were raising : 
Traps and trails ! 

There the rude, three-cornered chestnut rails. 

281 



OLD. 

There's the mill that ground our yellow grain : 
Pond, and river, still serenely flowing ; 

Cot, there nestling in the shaded lane, 

Where the lily of my heart was blowing : 
Mary Jane ! 

There's the mill that ground our yellow grain. 




There's the gate on which I used to swing, 

Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable 



But alas ! no more 



the morn shall bring 



282 



OLD. 

That dear group around my father's table : 

Taken wing ! 
There's the gate on which I used to swing. 

I am fleeino- — all I loved have fled. 

Yon green meadow was our place for playing ; 
That old tree can tell of sweet things said 

When around it Jane and I were straying ; 
She is dead I 
I am fleeino; — all I loved have fled. 

Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, 
Tracing silently life's changeful story, 

So familiar to my dim old eye, 

Points me to seven that are now in glory 
There on high : 

Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky ! 

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, 
Guided thither by an angel mother ; 

Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod ; 
Sire and sisters, and my little brother, 
Gone to God ! 

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. 

There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways : 

Bless the holy lesson ! — but ah, never 
Shall I hear again those songs of praise, 
Those sweet voices — silent now forever! 
Peaceful days ! 
There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways. 
283 



OLD. 

There my Mary blest me with her hand 

When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing, 

Ere she hastened to the spirit-land, 

Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing : 
Broken band ! 

There my Mary blest me with her hand. 

I have come to see that grave once more, 
And the sacred place where we delighted, 

Where we worshipped, in the days of yore, 
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 
To the core ; 

I have come to see that grave once more. 

Angel, said he sadly, I am old ; 

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow ; 
Now, why I sit here thou hast been told. 

In his eye another pearl of sorrow ; 
Down it rolled ! 
Angel, said he sadly, I am old. 

By the wayside, on a mossy stone, 

Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing ; 
Still I marked him sitting there alone, 
All the landscape, like a page, perusing ; 
Poor, unknown ! 
By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 

Kaijmi Hoyj 



'28 4 



NO MORE. 

No more ! a harp-string's deep and breaking tone, 
A last low summer breeze, a far-off swell, 

A dying echo of rich music gone, 

Breathe through those words, those murmurs of farewell 

No More ! 

To dwell in peace, with home-affections bound, 
To know the sweetness of a mother's voice, 

To feel the spirit of her love around, 
And in the blessing of her eye rejoice, 

No more ! 

A dirge-like sound ! — to greet the early friend 
Unto the hearth, his place of many days ; 

In the glad song with kindred lips to blend, 
Or join the household lauo-hter bv the blaze. 

No more ! 

Through woods that shadowed our first years to rove, 

With all our native music in the air ; 
To watch the sunset with the eyes we love, 

And turn and read our own heart's answer there, 

No more ! 
II 28o 



NO MORE. 

Words of despair ! yet Earth's, all Earth's, the woe 
Their passion breathes, the desolately deep ! 

That sound in Heaven — O ! image then the flow 
Of gladness in its tones — to part, to weep, 

No more ! 

To watch, in dying hope, affection's wane, 

To see the beautiful from life depart, 
To wear impatiently a secret chain, 

To w r aste the untold riches of the heart, 

No more ! 

Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to yearn 
For human love, and never quench that thirst ; 

To pour the soul out, winning no return, 
O'er fragile idols, by delusion nursed, 

No more ! 

On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean ; 

To mourn the changed, the far away, the dead ; 
To send our troubled spirits through the unseen, 

Intensely questioning for treasures fled, 

No more ! 

Words of triumphant music ! Bear we on 

The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air : 

Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are done, 
To learn in joy — to struggle, to despair, 

No more ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemaxs. 
286 



THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 

I have had playmates, I have had companions, 

In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days : 

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces ! 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies : 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

T loved a love once, fairest among women : 
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her: 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; 
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly, 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 

Ghostlike I paced round the haunts of my childhood 
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, 
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling ? 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces : 

287 



A SNOW-STORM. 

How some they have died, and some they have left me, 
And some are taken from me ; all are departed : 
All, all are gone — the old familiar faces! - 

Charles Lamb 



A SNOW-STORM 




lb a fearful night in the 
winter time, 
As cold as it ever can be ; 
The roar of the blast is heard, like the chime 

288 



A SNOW-STORM. 

Of the waves on an angry sea ; 
The moon is full, but her silver light 
The storm dashes out with its wings to-night ; 
And over the sky from south to north 
Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth 

In the strength of a mighty glee. 

n. 

All day had the snow come down — all day, 

As it never came down before ; 
And over the hills, at sunset, lay 

Some two or three feet, or more ; 
The fence was lost, and the wall of stone, 
The windows blocked, and the well-curbs gone ; 
The haystack had grown to a mountain lift, 
And the woodpile looked like a monster drift, 

As it lay by the farmer's door. 

The night sets in on a world of snow, 
While the air grows sharp and chill, 

And the warning roar of a fearful blow 
Is heard on the distant hill ; 

And the Norther ! See — on the mountain peak, 

In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek ! 

He shouts on the plain, Ho, ho, Ho, ho ! 

He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, 
And growls with a savage will. 

in. 
Such a night as this to be found abroad, 
In the drifts and the freezing air, 

289 



A SNOW-STORM. 

Sits a shivering clog in the field by the road. 

With the snow in his shaggy hair ! 
He shuts his eyes to the wind, and growls ; 
He lifts his head, and moans and howls ; 
Then crouching low from the cutting sleet, 
His nose is pressed on his quivering feet : 

Pray, what does the dog do there ? 

A farmer came from the village plain, 

But he lost the travelled way ; 
And for hours he trod, with might and main, 

A path for his horse and sleigh ; 
But colder still the cold wind blew, 
And deeper still the deep drifts grew, 
And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, 
At last in her struggles floundered down, 

Where a log in a hollow lay. 

In, vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort, 

She plunged in the drifting snow, 
While her master urged, till his breath grew short. 

With a word and a gentle blow ; 
But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight, 
His hands were numb, and had lost their might ; 
So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh, 
And strove to shelter himself till day, 

With his coat and the buffalo. 

IV. 

He has given the last faint jerk of the rein 
To rouse up his dying steed, 

290 



A SNOW-STORM. 



And tlie poor dog howls to the blast in vain, 

For help in his master's need ; 
For a while he strives, with a wistful cry. 




wm 



,s5a %«lll 




To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, 
And wao-s his tail if the rude winds flap 
The skirt of the buffalo over his la}), 
And whines when he takes no heed. 

•2D1 



A SNOW-STORM. 

v. 

The wind goes down, and the storm is o'er : 

'Tis the hour of midnight past ; 
The old trees writhe and bend no more 

In the whirl of the rushing blast ; 
The silent moon, with her peaceful light, 
Looks down on the hills, with snow all white ; 
And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, 
The blasted pine and the ghostly stump, 

Afar on the plain are cast. 

But cold and dead, by the hidden log, 

Are they who came from the town : 
The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, 

And his beautiful Morgan brown — 
In the wide snow-desert, far and grand, 
With his cap on his head, and the reins in his hand. 
The dog with his nose on his master's feet, 
And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet, 

Where she lay when she floundered down. 

Charles Gamage Eastman. 



2i*2 



THE OLD MAID. 

Why sits she thus in solitude ? Her heart 

Seems melting in her eyes' delicious blue ; 
And as it heaves, her ripe lips lie apart, 

As if to let its heavy throbbings through. 
In her dark eye a depth of softness swells, 

Deeper than that her careless girlhood wore ; 
And her cheek crimsons with the hue that tells 

The rich fair fruit is ripened to the core. 

It is her thirtieth birthday ! With a sigh 

Her soul hath turned from youth's luxuriant bowers, 
And her heart taken up the last sweet tie 

That measured out its links of golden hours. 
She feels her inmost soul within her stir, 

With thoughts too wild and passionate to speak ; 
Yet her full heart, its own interpreter, 

Translates itself in silence on her cheek. 

Joy's opening buds, affection's glowing flowers, 
Once lightly sprang within her beaming track ; 

O, life was beautiful in those lost hours ! 
And yet she does not wish to wander back. 
KK 293 



THE OLD MAID. 

No ! she but loves in loneliness to think 

On pleasures past, though never more to be ; 

Hope links her to the future — but the link 
That binds her to the past is Memory. 

From her lone path she never turns aside, 

Though passionate worshippers before her fall ; 
Like some pure planet in her lonelv pride, 

She seems to soar and beam above them all. 
Not that her heart is cold — emotions new, 

And fresh as flowers, are with her heartstrings knit, 
And sweetly mournful pleasures wander through 

Her virgin soul, and softly ruffle it. 

For she hath lived with heart and soul alive 

To all that makes life beautiful and fair ; 
Sweet thoughts, like honey-bees, have made their hive 

Of her soft bosom-cell, and cluster there. 
Yet life is not to her what it hath been : 

Her soul hath learned to look beyond its gloss ; 
And now she hovers, like a star, between 

Her deeds of love, her Saviour on the cross. 

Beneath the cares of earth she does not bow, 

Though she hath ofttimes drained its bitter cup, 
But ever wanders on with heavenward brow, 

And eyes whose lovely lids are lifted up. 
She feels that in that lovelier, happier sphere 

Her bosom yet will, birdlike, find its mate, 
And all the joys it found so blissful here 

Within that spirit-realm perpetuate. 

•2!)4 



EPITAPH ON EROTION. 

Vet sometimes o'er her trembling heartstrings thrill 

Soft sighs — for raptures it hath ne'er enjoyed; 
And then she dreams of love, and strives to fill 

With wild and passionate thoughts the craving void. 
And thus she wanders on — half sad, half blest : 

Without a mate for the pure lonely heart 
That, yearning, throbs within her virgin breast, 

Never to find its lovely counterpart. 

Amelia Ball Wejlky. 



EPITAPH ON EROTION. 

Underneath this greedy stone 
/ Lies little sweet Erotion, 
Whom the Fates, with hearts as cold, 
Nipped away at six years old. 
Thou, whoever thou may'st be, 
That hast this small field after me, 
Let the yearly rites be paid 
To her little slender shade : 
So shall no disease or jar 
Hurt thy house, or chill thy lar ; 
But this tomb here be alone, 
The only melancholy stone. 

Martial. (Latin.) 
Translation of Leigh HVnt. 



295 



BABY MAY. 

Cheeks as soft as July peaches ; 
Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches 
Poppies paleness ; round large eyes. 
Ever great with new surprise ; 
Minutes filled with shadeless gladness, 
Minutes just as brimmed with sadness ; 
Happy smiles and wailing cries, 
Crows and laughs and tearful eyes ; 
Lights and shadows, swifter born 
Than on windswept autumn cqrn ; 
Ever some new tiny notion, 
Making every limb all motion : 
Catchings up of legs and arms, 
Throwings back, and small alarms, 
Clutching fingers, straightening jerks, 
Twining feet, whose each toe works, 
Kickings up and straining risings, 
Mother's ever new surprisings ; 
Hands all wants, and looks all wonder 
At all things the heavens under ; 
Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings 
That have more of love than lovings ; 
Mischiefs done with such a winning 
Archness that we prize such sinning ; 
Breakings dire of plates and glasses, 
Graspings small at all that passes, 
296 



THE RAVEN. 



Pullings off* of all that's able 



To be caught from tray or table ; 
Silences — small meditations, 
Deep as thoughts of cares for nations, 
Breaking into wisest speeches 
In a tongue that nothing teaches, 
All the thoughts of whose possessing 
Must be wooed to light by guessing ; 
Slumbers — such sweet angel-seemings 
That we'd ever have such dreamings, 
Till from sleep we see thee breaking, 
And we'd always have thee waking ; 
Wealth for which we know no measure, 
Pleasure high above all pleasure ; 
Gladness brimming over gladness, 
Joy in care, delight in sadness ; 
Loveliness beyond completeness, 
Sweetness distancing all sweetness, 
Beauty all that beauty may be : 
That's May Bennett — that's my baby. 

William Cox Bennett. 



THE RAVEN. 

Once, upon a midnight dreary, 
While I pondered, weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious 
Volume of forgotten lore, 
297 



THE RAVEN. 

While I nodded, nearly napping, 
Suddenly there came a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, 

Rapping at my chamber door : 
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, 

" Tapping at my chamber door ; 

Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember! 
It was in the bleak December, 
And each separate dying ember 

Wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow ; 
Vainly I had tried to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow, 

Sorrow for the lost Lenore, 
For the rare and radiant maiden 

Whom the angels name Lenore : 

Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain 
Rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic 

Terrors never felt before ; 
So that now, to still the beating 
Of my heart, I stood repeating 
" 'Tis some visitor entreating 

Entrance at my chamber door, 
Some late visitor entreating 

Entrance at my chamber door: 

This it is, and nothing more." 
298 



THE RAVEN. 

Presently my soul grew stronger: 

Hesitating then no longer, 

" Sir." said I, " or Madam, truly 

Your forgiveness T implore ; 
But the fact is I was napping, 
And so gently you came rapping, 
And so faintly you came tapping, 

Tapping at my chamber door, 
That I scarce was sure I heard you ; " 

Here I opened wide the door : 

Darkness there, and nothing more ! 

Deep into that darkness peering, 
Long I stood there wondering, fearing. 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal 

Ever dared to dream before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, 
And the darkness gave no token, 
And the only word there spoken 

Was the whispered word "Lenore!*' 
This T whispered, and an echo 

Murmured back the word " Lenore ! " 

Merely this, and nothing more. 



Then into the chamber turning, 
All my soul within me burning, 
Soon I heard again a tapping, 

Somewhat louder than before : 

" Surely," said I, " surely that is 

Something at my window lattice ; 

Let me see, then, what thereat is, 

299 



THE RAVEN. 

And this mystery explore ; 
Let my heart be still a moment, 
And this mystery explore : 
'Tis the wind, and nothing more ! J? 

Open here I flung the shutter, 
When, with many a flirt and flutter, 
In there stepped a stately raven 

Of the saintly days of yore ; 
Not the least obeisance made he, 
Not an instant stopped or stayed he ; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, 

Perched above my chamber door, 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas 

Just above my chamber door : 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling 

My sad fancy into smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum 

Of the countenance it wore, 
•" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, 
Thou," I said, "art sure no craven, 
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, 

Wandering from the Nightly shore : 
Tell me what thy lordly name is 

On the Night's Plutonian shore ! " 

Quoth the raven " Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainly 
Fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 
soo 



THE RAVEN. 

Though its answer little meaning. 

Little relevancy bore ; 
For we cannot help agreeing 
That no living human being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing 

Bird above his chamber door, 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured 

Bust above his chamber door, 

With such name as "Nevermore." 

But the raven, sitting lonely 
On the placid bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in 

That one word he did outpour. 
Nothing farther then he uttered, 
Not a feather then he fluttered ; 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, 

" Other friends have flown before ; 
On the morrow he will leave me, 

As my hopes have flown before." 

Then the bird said " Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken 

By reply so aptly spoken, 

" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters 

Is its only stock and store, 
Caught from some unhappy master, 
Whom unmerciful Disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster, 

Till his songs one burden bore, 
Till the dirges of his hope the 

ll 301 



THE RAVEN. 

Melancholy burden bore 
Of 'Never — nevermore.'" 

But the raven still beguiling 
All my sad soul into smiling, 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in 

Front of bird, and bust and door ; 
Then upon the velvet sinking, 
I betook myself to linking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking 

What this ominous bird of yore, 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, 

Gaunt, and ominous bird of yore 

Meant in croaking " Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, 

But no syllable expressing 

To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now 

Burned into my bosom's core ; 
This, and more, I sat divining, 
With my head at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining 

That the lamplight gloated o'er ; 
But whose velvet violet lining, 

With the lamplight gloating o'er, 

She shall press — ah, nevermore ! 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, 
Perfumed from an unseen censer 
Swung bv ano-els, whose faint footfalls 
Tinkled on the tufted floor. 
302 



THE RAVEN. 

" Wretch ! " I cried, " thy God hath lent thee, 
By these angels he hath sent thee, 
Respite — respite and nepenthe 

From thy memories of Lenore ! 
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, 

And forget this lost Lenore I " 

Quoth the raven " Nevermore." 

" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! 
Prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
Whether tempter sent, or whether 

Tempest tossed thee here ashore, 
Desolate yet all undaunted, 
On this desert land enchanted, 
On this home by Horror haunted, 

Tell me truly, I implore : 
Is there, is there balm in Gilead ? 

Tell me — tell me, I implore!" 

Quoth the raven " Nevermore." 

" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! 

Prophet still, if bird or devil ! 

By that heaven that bends above us. 

By that God we both adore, 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden 
If, within the distant Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden 

Whom the angels name Lenore, 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden 

Whom the angels name Lenore." 

Quoth the raven " Nevermore." 

303 



THE RAVEN. 

" Be that word our sign of parting, 
Bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting; 
" Get thee back into the tempest 

And the Night's Plutonian shore ! 
Leave no black plume as a token 
Of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! 

Quit the bust above my door ! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, 

And take thy form from off my door ! " 

Quoth the raven " Nevermore." 

And the raven, never flitting, 
Still is sitting, still is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas 

Just above my chamber door; 
And his eyes have all the seeming 
Of a demon's that is dreaming, 
And the lamplight, o'er him streaming, 

Throws his shadow on the floor ; 
And my soul from out that shadow 

That lies floating on the flooi 

Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 

Edgar Allan Poe, 



804 




ON A GIRDLE. 

That which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind ; 
No monarch but would give his crown, 
His arms miffht do what this hath done. 



It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, 
The pale which held that lovely deer ; 

MM 805 



THE MOTHER'S LAST SONG. 

My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, 
Did all within this circle move. 

A narrow compass ! and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair. 
Give me bnt what this ribbon bound, 
Take all the rest the sun goes round ! 



Edmund Wallkr. 



THE MOTHER'S LAST SONG. 

Sleep ! — The ghostly winds are blowing ; 
No moon abroad, no star is glowing ; 
The river is deep, and the tide is flowing 
To the land where you and I are going : 

We are going afar, 

Beyond moon or star, 
To the land where the sinless angels are. 

I lost my heart to your heartless sire, 
('Twas melted away by his looks of fire,) 
Forgot my God, and my father's ire, 
All for the sake of a man's desire ; 

But now we'll go 

Where the waters flow, 
And make us a bed where none shall know. 

The world is cruel, the world is untrue ; 
Our foes are many, our friends are few ; 
bob 



°Yo v^cHrtJa <t^m5 ; ' ^>/^ <* J&**<£f : 

tyca^t Gc***f cc^ur f 
W<~£ L/ >£*ULs Aft* /v us & cto^ ^-~ 



AT THE CHURCH GATE. 

No work, no bread, however we sue ! 
What is there left for me to. do, 
But fly, fly 
From the cruel sky, 
And hide in the deepest deeps — and die ! 

Bryan Waller Procter. (Barry Cornwall.) 



AT THE CHURCH GATE. 

Although I enter not, 
Yet round about the spot 

Ofttimes I hover; 
And near the sacred gate, 
With longing eyes I wait, 

Expectant of her. 

The minster bell tolls out 
Above the city's rout, 

And noise and humming. 
They've hushed the minster bell : 
The organ Vins to swell : 

She's coming, she's coming ! 

My lady comes at last, 
Timid, and stepping fast, 

And hastening hither, 
With modest eyes downcast ; 
She comes — she's here, she's past! 

May Heaven go with her ! 
mm * 307 



SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint ! 
Pour out your praise or plaint 

Meekly and duly ; 
I will not enter there, 
To sully your pure prayer 

With thoughts unrulv. 

But suffer me to pace 
Round the forbidden place, 

Lingering a minute, 
Like outcast spirits, who wait, 
And see, through Heaven's gate, 

Angels within it. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 

She was a phantom of delight 
When first she gleamed upon my sight, 
A lovely apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament : 
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, 
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May time and the cheerful dawn ; 
A dancing shape, an image gay, 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 
308 



THE MOTHER NIGHTINGALE. 

I saw her, upon nearer view, 

A spirit, yet a woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet : 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food : 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The verv pulse of the machine ; 
A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller between life and death ; 
The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill : 
A perfect woman, nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel light. 

William -Wordsworth. 



THE MOTHER NIGHTINGALE 

I have seen a nightingale 
On a sprig of thyme bewail, 
Seeing the dear nest, which was 
Hers alone, borne off, alas ! 

30.0 



THE MOTHER NIGHTINGALE. 

By a laborer ; I heard, 
For this outrage, the poor bird 
Say a thousand mournful things 
To the wind, which, on its wings, 
From her to the guardian of the sky, 
Bore her melancholy cry, 
Bore her tender tears. She spake 
As if her fond heart would break : 
One while, in a sad, sweet note, 
Gurgled from her straining throat, 
She enforced her piteous tale, 
Mournful prayer, and plaintive wail ; 
One while, with the shrill dispute 
Quite outwearied, she was mute ; 
Then afresh, for her dear brood, 
Her harmonious shrieks renewed. 
Now she winged it round and round ; 
Now she skimmed along the ground ; 
Now from bough to bough, in haste, 
The delighted robber chased, 
And, alighting in his path, 
Seemed to say, 'twixt grief and wrath, 
" Give me back, fierce rustic rude, 
Give me back my pretty brood ! " 
And I saw the rustic still 
Answered " That, I never will ! " 

Estevan Manuel de Villegas. ^Spanish.) 
Vanslation of Thomas Roscoe. 



810 



MY HE1D IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE. 

My heid is like to rend, Willie, 

My heart is like to break ; 
I'm wearin' an my feet, Willie, 

I'm dyin' for your sake ! 
O, lay your cheek to mine, Willie, 

Your hand on my briest bane ; 
O, say ye'll think on me, Willie, 

When I am deid and gane ! 

It's vain to comfort me, Willie : 

Sair grief maun ha'e its will ; 
But let me rest upon your briest, 

To sab and greet my fill. 
Let me sit on your knee, Willie, 

Let me shed by your hair, 
And look into the face, Willie, 

I never sail see mair ! 

I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie, 
For the last time in my life : 

A puir heart-broken thing, Willie, 
A mither, yet nae wife ! 

311 



MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE. 

Ay, press your hand upon my heart, 

And press it mair and mair, 
Or it will burst the silken twine, 

Sae Strang is its despair. 

O, wae's me for the hour, Willie, 

When we thegither met ! 
O, wae's me for the time, Willie, 

That our first tryst was set ! 
O, wae's me for the loanin' green 

Where we were wont to gae ! 
And wae's me for the destinie 

That gart me hive thee sae ! 

O, dinna mind my words, Willie: 

I downa seek to blame ; 
But O, it's hard to live, Willie, 

And dree a warld's shame ! 
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek, 

And hailin' ower your chin : 
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness, 

For sorrow, and for sin ? 

I'm weary o' this warld, Willie, 

And sick wi' a' I see ; 
I canna live as I ha'e lived, 

Or be as I should be. 
But fauld unto your heart, Willie, 

The heart that still is thine, 
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek 

Ye said was red langsyne. 

312 



MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE. 

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie, 

A sair stoun' through my heart ; 
O haud me up, and let me kiss 

Thy brow ere we twa pairt. 
Anither, and anither yet ! 

How fast my lifestrings break! 
Fareweel, fareweel ! through yon kirkyard 

Step lichtly for my sake ! 

The lavrock in the lift, Willie, 

That lilts far ower our heid, 
Will sing the morn as merrilie 

Abune the clay-cauld deid ; 
And this green turf we're sittin' on, 

Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, 
Will hap the heart that luvit thee 

As warld has seldom seen. 

But O, remember me, Willie, 

On land where'er ye be ; 
And O, think on the leal, leal heart, 

That ne'er luvit ane but thee ! 
And O, think on the cauld, cauld raools 

That fyle my yellow hair, 
That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin 

Ye never sail kiss mair ! 

William Motherwel 



313 



KORNER'S SWORD SONG, 

COMPLETED ONE HOUR BEFORE HE FELL ON THE BATTLE-FIELD, 
AUG. 26, 1813. » 




WORD at my left side gleaming ! 
Why is thy keen glance, beaming, 

So fondly bent on mine ? 

I love that smile of thine ! 

Hurrah ! 

" Borne by a trooper daring, 
My looks his fire-glance wearing, 
I arm a freeman's hand : 
This well delights thy brand ! 

Hurrah ! " 

Ay, good sword, free I wear thee ; 
And, true heart's love, I bear thee, 
Betrothed one, at my side, 
As my dear, chosen bride ! 

Hurrah ! 



" To thee till death united, 

Thy steel's bright life is plighted ; 

Ah, were my love but tried ! 

When wilt thou wed thy bride ? 

Hurrah ! " 



314 



KORNER'S SWORD SONG. 

The trumpet's festal warning 
Shall hail our bridal morning ; 

When loud the cannon chide, 
Then clasp I my loved bride ! 
Hurrah ! 

*' O joy, when thine arms hold me ! 
I pine until they fold me. 

Come to me ! bridegroom, come ! 

Thine is my maiden bloom. 

Hurrah ! " 

Why, in thy sheath upspringing, 
Thou wild, dear steel, art ringing? 

Why clanging with delight, 

So eager for the fight ? 

Hurrah ! 

" Well may thy scabbard rattle : 

Trooper, I pant for battle ; 
Right eager for the fight, 
I clang with wild delight. 

Hurrah ! " 

Why thus, my love, forth creeping? 

Stay in thy chamber, sleeping ; 

Wait still, in the narrow room : 
Soon for my bride I come. 

Hurrah ! 



315 



KORNER'S SWORD SONG. 

" Keep me not longer pining ! 

O for Love's garden, shining 
With roses bleeding red, 
And blooming with the dead ! 

Hurrah ! " 

Come from thy sheath, then, treasure ! 
Thou trooper's true eye-pleasure ! 

Come forth, my good sword, come ! 

Enter thy father-home ! 

Hurrah ! 

" Ha ! in the free air glancing, 
How brave this bridal dancing ! 

How, in the sun's glad beams, 
Bride-like, thy bright steel gleams ! 
Hurrah ! " 

Come on, ye German horsemen ! 
Come on, ye valiant Norsemen ! 

Swells not your hearts' warm tide ? 

Clasp each in hand his bride ! 
Hurrah ! 

Once at your left side sleeping, 
Scarce her veiled glance forth peeping ; 
Now, wedded with your right, 
God plights your bride in the light. 
Hurrah ! 



31 G 



KORNER'S SWORD SONG. 

Then press with warm caresses, 

Close lips and bridal kisses, 

Your steel ; — cursed be his head 
Who fails the bride he wed ! 

Hurrah ! 



Now, till your swords flash, flinging 
Clear sparks forth, wave them singing. 

Day dawns for bridal pride ; 

Hurrah, thou iron bride ! 

Hurrah ! 

Karl Theodor Korxkr. 
Translation of William B. Chorley. 



(German.) 




THE RIVER TIME. 

O ! a wonderful stream is the River Time, 

As it runs through the realm of tears, 
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, 
And a broader sweep and a surge sublime, 
As it blends with the ocean of Years. 

How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow, 

And the summers, like buds between, 
And the year in the sheaf — so they come and they 
On the river's breast, with its ebb and its flow, 
As it glides in the shadow and sheen. 

There's a magical isle up the River Time, 

Where the softest of airs are playing ; 
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, 
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, 
And the Junes with the roses are staying. 

And the name of the isle is the Long Ago, 

And we bury our treasures there ; 
There are brows of beauty, and bosoms of snow ; 
They are heaps of dust — but we loved them so ! 

There are trinkets, and tresses of hair. 
318 



GIVE ME THE OLD. 

There are fragments of song that nobody sings, 

And a part of an infant's prayer ; 
There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings ; 
There are broken vows, and pieces of rings, 

And the garments that She used to wear. 

There are hands that are waved, when the tairy shore 

By the mirage is lifted in air ; 
And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, 
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, 

When the wind down the river is fair. 

O ! remembered for aye be the blessed isle, 

All the day of our life till night ; 
When the evening comes with its beautiful smile, 
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile, 

May that " Greenwood " of Soul be in sight ! 

Benjamin Franklin Taylor. 



GIVE ME THE OLD 

OLD WINE TO DRINK, OLD WOOD TO BURN, OLD BOOKS TO READ, AND OLD 
FRIENDS TO CONVERSE WITH. 

I. 

Old wine to drink ! 
Ay, give the slippery juice 
That drippeth from the grape thrown loose 
Within the tun : 
319 



GIVE ME THE OLD. 

Plucked from beneath the cliff 
Of sunny-sided Teneriffe, 

And ripened 'neath the blink 

Of India's sun ! 

Peat whiskey hot, 
Tempered with well-boiled water ! 
These make the loner night shorter : 

Forgetting not 
Good stout old English porter. 

n. 
Old wood to burn ! 
Ay, bring the hill-side beech 
From where the owlets meet and screech. 

And ravens croak ; 
The crackling pine, and cedar sweet ; 
Bring too a clump of fragrant peat, 
Dug 'neath the fern ; 
The knotted oak, 
A fagot too, perh ap, 
Whose bright flame, dancing, winking, 
Shall light us at our drinking ; 

While the oozing sap 
Shall make sweet music to our thinking. 

in. 
Old books to read ! 
Ay, bring those nodes of wit, 
The brazen-clasped, the vellum-writ, 

Time-honored tomes ! 
The same my sire scanned before, 
320 



GIVE ME THE OLD. 

The same my grandsire thumbed o'er, 
The same his sire from college bore : 
The well-earned meed 

Of Oxford's domes. 

Old Homer blind, 
Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by- 
Old Tully, Plautus, Terence lie ; 
Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie, 
Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay ! 
And Gervase Markham's venerie ; 

Nor leave behind 
The Holye Book by which we live and die. 

TV. 

Old friends to talk ! 
Ay, bring those chosen few, 
The wise, the courtly, and the true, 

So rarely found : 
Him for my wine, him for my stud, 
Him for my easel, distich, bud 
In mountain walk ! 
Bring Walter good, 
With soulful Fred, and learned Will ; 
And thee, my alter ego, (dearer still 
For every mood.) 

Robert Hinckley Messixger. 



a 2i 



LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. 




I arise from dreams of thee 
In the first sweet sleep of night, 
When the winds are breathing low, 
And the stars are shining bright. 
I arise from dreams of thee, 
And a spirit in my feet 

Has led me — who knows 
how ? 

To thy chamber window, 
sweet ! 

The wandering airs, they 

faint 
On the dark and silent 

stream ; 

The champak odors fail 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream : 

The nightingale's complaint, 

It dies upon her heart : 

As I must on thine, 

Beloved as thou art ! 

322 



THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 

O, lift me from the grass ! 

I die, I faint, I fail ! 

Let thy love in kisses rain 

On my lips and eyelids pale. 

My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 

My heart beats loud and fast ; 

O, press it close to thine again, 

Where it will break at last ! 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 



THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 

Sabbat a pango , 
Funera plango ; 
Solemnia clango. 



Inscription on an old B 



With deep affection 
And recollection 
[ often think of 

Those Shandon bells, 
Whose sounds so wild would, 
In the days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle 

Their magic spells. 

On this I ponder 
Where'er I wander, 
And thus grow fonder, 
Sweet Cork, of thee, 
323 



THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 

With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chiming 
Full many a clime in, 
Tolling sublime in 

Cathedral shrine, 
While at a glibe rate 
Brass tongues would vibrate ; 
But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine. 

For memory, dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of thy belfry, knelling 

Its bold notes free, 
Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells tolling 
Old Adrian's Mole in, 
Their thunder rolling 

From the Vatican, 
And cymbals glorious 
Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets 

Of Notre Dame ; 

.324 



THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 

But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly. 
O, the hells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

There's a bell in Moscow ; 
While on tower and kiosk O 
In Saint Sophia 

The Turkman gets, 
And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer 
From the tapering summit 

Of tall minarets. 

Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them ; 
But there's an anthem 

More dear to me : 
'Tis the bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

Francis Mahony. (Father Prout.) 



325 



THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE. 

Tears, idle tears ! I know not what they mean : 
Tears, from the depth of some divine despair, 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy antumn fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail 
That brings onr friends up from the under-world ; 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge : 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah ! sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square : 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remembered kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
On lips that are for others — deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret : 
O Death in Life ! the days that are no more. 

Alfred Tennyson. 
3-2G 



A DAY-DREAM. 

Mine eyes make pictures when they 're shut : 

I see a fountain, large and fair, 
A willow and a ruined hut, 

And thee, and me, and Mary there. 
O Mary, make thy gentle lap our pillow ! 
Bend o'er us like a bower, my beautiful green willow ! 

A wild rose roofs the ruined shed, 

And that and summer well agree ; 
And lo ! where Mary leans her head, 

Two dear names carved upon the tree ! 
And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow : 
Our sister and our friend will both be here to-morrow. 

'T was day ! But now, few, large, and bright, 

The stars are round the crescent moon ; 
And now it is a dark, warm night, 

The balmiest of the month of June. 
A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting, 
Shines, and its shadow shines — fit stars for our sweet fountain ! 

O, ever, ever be thou blest ! 

For dearly, Nora, love I thee. 
This brooding warmth across my breast — 

This depth of tranquil bliss — ah, me ! 

327 



IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE DIKD. 

Fount, tree, and shed are gone, I know not whither ; 
But in one quiet room we three are still together. 

The shadows dance upon the wall, 

By the still-dancing fire-flames made ; 
And now they slumber, moveless all ; 

And now they melt to one deep shade. 
But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee : 
I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I. feel thee. 

Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play ; 

'T is Mary's hand upon my brow ! 
But let me check this tender lay, 

Which none may hear but she and thou. 
Like the still hive, at quiet midnight humming, 
Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women ! 

Samuel Taylor Colkkidgk 



IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE DIED. 

If I had thought thou couldst have died, 

I might not weep for thee ; 
But I forgot when by thy side, 

That thou couldst mortal be. 
It never through my mind had past 

That time would e'er be o'er, 
And I on thee should look my last, 

And thou shouldst smile no more. 

328 



IF J HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE DIED 

And still upon that face I look, 

And think 'twill smile again ; 
And still the thought I will not brook 

That I must look in vain. 
But when I speak, thou dost not say 

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid ; 
And now I feel, as well I may, 

Sw r eet Mary, thou art dead ! 

If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art, 

All cold and all serene, 
I still might press thy silent heart, 

And where thy smiles have been. 
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have, 

Thou seemest still mine own ; 
But there — I lay thee in thy grave, 

And I am now alone. 

I do not think, where'er thou art, 

Thou hast forgotten me ; 
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart 

In thinking too of thee ; 
Yet there was round thee such a dawn 

Of light ne'er seen before, 
As fancy never could have drawn. 

And never can restore. 

Chahlks Wolfe. 



SUMMER LONGINGS. 

Las mananas floridas 
De Abril y Mayo. 

Calderon. 

Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 
Waiting for the May, 
Waiting for the pleasant rambles, 
Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, 
With the woodbine alternating, 

Scent the dewy way. 
Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 
Waiting for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, 
Longing for the May, 
Longing to escape from study, 
To the young face fair and ruddy, 
And the thousand charms belonging 

To the Summer's day. 
Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, 
Longing for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, 
Sighing for the May, 
Sighing for their sure returning, 
When the summer beams are burning : 

330 



THE FISHER'S COTTAGE. 

Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying, 

All the Winter lay. 
Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, 

Sighing for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing, 
Throbbing for the May, 
Throbbing for the seaside billows, 
Or the water-wooing willows, 

Where, in laughing and in sobbing, 

Glide the streams away. 
Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing, 
Throbbing for the May. 

Waiting sad, dejected, weary, 
Waiting for the May ! 
Spring goes by with wasted warnings, 
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings ; 
Summer comes — yet dark and dreary 

Life still ebbs away. 
Man is ever weary, weary, 
Waiting for the May ! 

Denis Florence McCarthy 



THE FISHER'S COTTAGE. 

We sat by the fisher's cottage, 
And looked at the stormy tide ; 

The evening mist came rising, 
And floating far and wide. 
331 



THE FISHER'S COTTAGE. 

One by one in the light-house 

The lamps shone out on high ; 
And far on the dim horizon 

A ship went sailing by. 

We spoke of storm and shipwreck, 

Of sailors, and how they live ; 
Of journeys 'twixt sky and water, 

And the sorrows and joys they give. 

We spoke of distant countries, 

In regions strange and fair ; 
And of the wondrous beings 

And curious customs there : 

• Of perfumed lamps on the Ganges, 

Which are launched in the twilight hour ; 
And the dark and silent Brahmins, 
Who worship the lotus flower ; 

Of the wretched dwarfs of Lapland, 

Broad-headed, wide-mouthed, and small, 

Who crouch round their oil-fires, cooking, 
And chatter and scream and bawl. 

And the maidens earnestly listened, 

Till at last we spoke no more ; 
The ship like a shadow had vanished, 
And darkness fell deep on the shore. 

Heinrich Heine. (German.) 
Translation of Charles Godfrey Lelakd. 

332 




WAKE, LADY ! 

Up ! quit thy bower ! late wears the hour. 
Long have the rooks cawed round the tower ; 
O'er flower and tree loud hums the bee, 
And the wild kid sports merrily. 
The sun is bright, the sky is clear : 
Wake, lady, wake ! and hasten here. 



Up ! maiden fair, and bind thy hair, 
And rouse thee in the breezy air ! 
qq 333 



THE MERRY LARK WAS UP AND SINGING. 

The lulling stream that soothed thy dream 
Is dancing in the sunny beam. 
Waste not these hours, so fresh, so gay : 
Leave thy soft couch, and haste away ! 

Up ! Time will tell the morning bell 
Its service-sound has chimed well ; 
The aged crone keeps house alone, 
The reapers to the fields are gone. 
Lose not these hours, so cool, so gay : 
Lo ! while thou sleep'st they haste away ! 

Joanna Baili.ik. 



THE MERRY LARK WAS UP AND SINGING. 

The merry, merry lark was up and singing, 

And the hare was out and feeding on the lea, 
And the merry, merry bells below were ringing, 

When my child's laugh rang through me. 
Now the hare is snared, and dead beside the snow-yard, 

And the lark beside the dreary winter sea, 
And my baby in his cradle in the churchyard 

Waiteth there until the bells bring me. 

Charles Kingslky. 



334 



THE DULE'S V THIS BONNET O' MINE 

The chile's i' this bonnet o' mine : 

My ribbins'll never be reet. 
Here, Mally, aw'm like to be tine, 

For Jamie'll be comin' to-neet ; 
He met me i' th' lone tother day, 

(Aw wnr gooin' for wayter to th' well,) 
An' he begged that aw'd wed him i' May. 

Bi'th' mass, iv he'll let me, aw will ! 

When he took my two honds into his : 

Good Lord, heaw they trembled between ! 
An' aw durstn't look up in his face, 

Becose on him seein' my e'en. 
My cheek went as red as a rose ; 

There's never a mortal con tell 
Heaw happy aw felt — for, thae knows, 

One couldn't ha' axed him theirsel'. 

But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung: 
To let it eawt wouldn't be reet, 

For aw thought to seem forrud w T ur wrung ; 
So aw towd him aw'd tell him to-neet. 

But, Mally, thae knows very weel, 

Though it isn't a thino; one should own, 

QQ * 335 



THE VOICELESS. 

Iv aw'd th' pikein' o 1 th' world to mysel', 
Aw'd oather ha' Jamie or noan. 

Neaw, Mally, aw've tovvd thae my mind ; 

What would to do iv it wur thee ? 
" Aw'd tak him just while he're inclined, 

An' a farrantly bargain he'll be ; 
For Jamie's as greadly a lad 

As ever stept eawt into th' sun. 
Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed ; 

An' mak th' best o' th' job when it's done ! " 

Eh, dear! but it's time to be gwon : 

Aw shouldn't like Jamie to wait ; 
Aw connut for shame be too soon, 

An' aw wouldn't for th' world be too late. 
Aw'm o' ov a tremble to th' heel : 

Dost think 'at my bonnet'll do ? 
u Be off, lass — thae looks very weel ; 

He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo ! " 

Edwin Wau«h. 



THE VOICELESS. 

We count the broken lyres that rest 

Where the sweet wailing sino-ers slumber, 

But o'er their silent sister's breast 

The wild flowers who will stoop to number ? 
336 




V* ^ ■<* ^ > ^ J 



* 



1 



I 




THE VOICELESS. 

A few can touch the magic string, 

And noisy Fame is proud to win them ; 

Alas for those that never sing, 

But die with all their music in them ! 



Nay, grieve not for the dead alone, 

Whose song has told their hearts' sad story : 
Weep for the voiceless, who have known 

The cross without the crown of glory ! 
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, 
But where the glistening night-dews weep 

On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. 

O hearts that break and give no sign, 

Save whitening lip and fading tresses, 
Till Death pours out his cordial wine 

Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses ! 
If singing breath or echoing chord 

To every hidden pang were given, 
What endless melodies were poured, 

As sad ns Earth, as sweet as Heaven ! 

Olivkr Wendkll Holmk.s. 



■m 



THE CAVE OF SILVER. 

Seek me the cave of silver ! 
Find me the cave of silver! 
Rirle the cave of silver! 

Said J Ida to Brok the Hold : 
So you may kiss me often ; 
So von may ring my finger ; 
So yon may bind my true love 

In the round hoop of gold ! 

Bring me no skins of foxes ; 
Bring me no beds of eider ; 
Boast not your fifty vessels 

That fish in the Northern Sea ; 
For I would lie upon velvet, 
And sail in a golden gallev, 
And naught but the cave of silver 

Will win my true love for thee. 

Reena, the witch, hath told me 
That up in the wild Lapp mountains 
There lieth a cave of silver, 

Down dee]) in a valley-side ; 
So gather your lance and rifle, 
And speed to the purple pastures, 
And seek ye the cave of silver 

As you seek me for your bride. 
33* 



THE CAVE OF SILVER. 

T go, said Brok, right proudly ; 
1 go to the purple pastures, 
To seek for the cave of silver 

So long as my life shall hold ; 
But when the keen Lapp arrows 
Are fleshed in the heart that loves you, 
I'll leave my curse on the woman 

Who slaughtered Brok the Bold! 

But Ilda laughed as she shifted 
The Bergen scarf on her shoulder, 
And pointed her small white finger 

Right up at the mountain gate ; 
And cried, O my gallant sailor, 
You're brave enough to the fishes, 
But the Lappish arrow is keener 

Than the back of the thorny skate ! 

The Summer passed, and the Winter 
Came down from the icy ocean : 
But back from the cave of silver 

Returned not Brok the Bold : 
And llda waited and waited. 
And sat at the door till sunset, 
And gazed at the wild Lapp mountains 

That blackened the skies of gold. 

I want not a cave of silver ! 
I care for no cave of silver! 
O far beyond caves of silver 
I pine for my Brok the Bold! 
339 



A DIRGE. 

O ye strong Norwegian gallants, 
Go seek for my lovely lover, 
And bring him to ring my finger 
With the round hoop of gold ! 

But the brave Norwegian gallants 
They laughed at the cruel maiden, 
And left her sitting in sorrow, 

Till her heart and her face grew old ; 
While she moaned of the cave of silver, 
And moaned of the wild Lapp mountains. 
And him who never will ring; her 

With the round hoop of gold ! 

Fitz-Jamks O'Bkikn. 



A DIRGE. 



Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, 

Since o'er shady groves they hover, 

And with leaves and flowers do cover 

The friendless bodies of unburied men. 

Call unto his funeral dole 

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, 

To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm, 

And (when gay tombs are robbed) sustain no harm ; 

But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, 

For with his nails he'll dig them up again. 

John Webster. 
340 



REST AND LABOIt. 

kt Two hands upon the breast, 

And labor's done ; 
Two pale feet crossed in rest. 

The race is won ; 
Two eyes with coin weights shut, 

And all tears cease ; 
Two lips where grief is mute, 

Anger at peace ! " 
So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot ; 
God in his kindness answereth not. 

" Two hands to work addrest, 

Aye for His praise ; 
Two feet that never rest, 

Walking His ways ; 
Two eyes that look above, 

Through all their tears ; 
Two lips still breathing love, 

Not wrath, nor fears ! " 
So pray we afterwards, low on our knees , 
Pardon those erring prayers ! Father, hear these 

Dinah Mart a Mulocii. 



341 



mm 



&m*^4!00. 





GULF-WEED. 

A weary weed, tossed to and fro, 

Drearily drenched in the ocean brine. 
Soaring high and sinking low, 

Lashed along without will of mine ; 
Sport of the spoom of the surging sea, 

Flnno- on the foam afar and an ear, 
Mark my manifold mystery : 

Growth and grace in their place appear 
342 



EXHORTATION TO PRAYER. 

I hear round berries, gray and red, 

Rootless and rover, though I be; 
My spangled leaves, when nicely spread, 

Arboresce as a trunkless tree ; 
('orals curious coat me o'er, 

White and hard in apt array; 
'Mid the wild waves' rude uproar, 

Gracefully grow I, night and day. 

Hearts there are on the sounding- shore, 

Something whispers soft to me, 
Restless and roaming for evermore, 

Like this weary weed of the sea ; 
Rear they yet on each beating breast 

The eternal type of the wondrous whole : 
Growth unfolding amidst unrest, 

Grace informing with silent soul. 

Cornulius Gkohgk Fexnkr. 



EXHORTATION TO PRAYER, 

Not on a pray erl ess bed, not on a prayerless bed 
Compose thy weary limbs to rest ; 
For they alone are blest 
With balmy sleep 
Whom angels keep ; 
Nor, though by care oppressed, 
Or anxious sorrow, 

3-13 



EXHORTATION TO PRAYER. 

Or thought in many a coil perplexed 
For coming morrow, 
Lay not thy head 
On prayerless bed. 

For who can tell, when sleep thine eye shall close, 
That earthly cares and woes 
To thee may e'er return ? 
Arouse, my soul ! 
Slumber control, 
And let thy lamp burn brightly ; 

So shall thine eyes discern 
Things pure and sightly ; 
Taught by the Spirit, learn 
Never on prayerless bed 
To lay thine unblest head. 

Hast thou no pining want, or wish, or care, 
That calls for holy prayer ? 

Has thy day been so bright 
That in its flight 
There is no trace of sorrow ? 
And art thou sure to-morrow 

Will be like this, and more 
Abundant? Dost thou yet lay up thy store, 

And still make plans for more? 

Thou fool ! this very night 

Thy soul may wing its flight. 

Hast thou no being than thyself more dear, 
That ploughs the ocean deep, 

344 



THE GOOD GREAT MAN. 

And when storms sweep 
The wintry, lowering sky, 
For whom thou wak'st and weepest? 
O, when thy pangs are deepest, 
Seek then the covenant ark of prayer ! 
For He that slumbereth not is there: 
His ear is open to thy cry. 
O, then, on pray erl ess bed 
Lay not thy thoughtless head ! 

Arouse thee, weary soul, nor yield to slumber ! 
Till in communion blest 
With the elect ye rest, 
Those souls of countless number ; 
And with them raise 
The note of praise, 
Reaching from Earth to Heaven: 
Chosen, redeemed, forgiven ! 
So lay thy happy head, 
Prayer-crowned, on blessed bed. 

Margaret Mercer. 



THE GOOD GREAT MAN. 

How seldom, Mend, a good great man inherits 

Honor and wealth, with all his worth and pains ! 
It seems a story from the world of spirits 
When any man obtains that which he merits, 
Or any merits that which he obtains. 
ss 345 



DIRGE OF JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. 

For shame, my friend ! renounce this idle strain ! 

What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain i? 

Wealth, title, dignity, a golden chain ? 

Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain? 

Goodness and greatness are not means, but ends. 

Hath he not always treasures, always friends, 

The good great man? Three treasures — love, and light, 

And calm thoughts, equable as infant's breath ; 
And three fast friends, more sure than day or night : 

Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. 

Samuel Taylor Coleuipgk. 



DIRGE OF JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. 

SUNG BY THE VIRGINS. 

O thou, the wonder of all dayes ! 
O paragon, and pearl of praise ! 
O virgin-martyr, ever blest 

Above the rest 
Of all the maiden traine! We come, 
And bring fresh strewings to thy tombe. 

Thus, thus, and thus, we compasse round 
Thy harmlesse and unhaunted ground ! 
And as we sing thy dirge, we will 

The daffodill, 
And other flowers, lay upon 
The altar of our love, thy stone. 

34G 



DIRGE OF JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. 

Thou wonder of all maids, rest here ! 
Of daughters all the dearest deare, 
The eye of virgins ; nay, the queen 

Of this smooth green, 
And all sweet meades from whence we get 
The primrose and the violet ! 

Too soone, too deare, did Jephthah buy, 

By thy sad losse, our liberty ; 

His was the bond and covenant, yet 

Thou paid'st the debt. 
Lamented maid ! he won the day, 
But for the conquest thou didst pay. 

Thy father brought with him along 
The olive branch, and victor's song. 
He slew the Ammonites, we know : 

But to thy woe ; 
And in the purchase of cur peace 
The cure was worse than the disease. 

For which obedient zeale of thine 
We offer here, before thy shrine, 
Our sighs for storax, teares for wine ; 

And, to make fine 
And fresh thy herse-cloth, we will here 
Four times bestrew thee every yeare. 

Receive, for this thy praise, our teares ! 
Receive this offering of our haires ! 
Receive these christall vials, filled 
34 7 



DIRGE OF JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. 

"With teares distilled 
From teeming eyes ! To these we bring, 
Each maid, her silver filleting, 

To guild thy tombe. Besides, these caules, 
These laces, ribbands, and these fanles : 
These veiles, wherewith we use to hide 

The bashfull bride 
When we conduct her to her groome : 
All, all we lay upon thy tombe ! 

No more, no more, since thou art dead, 
Shall Ave e'er bring coy brides to bed ; 
No more, at yearly festivalls, 

We cowslip balls, 
Or chaines of columbines, shall make 
For this or that occasion's sake. 

No, no ! our maiden pleasures be 
Wrapt in the winding-sheet with thee : 
'Tis we are dead, though not i' th' grave ; 

Or if we have 
One seed of life left, 'tis to keep 
A Lent for thee — to fast and weep. 

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 

And make this place all paradise ! 

May sweets grow here, and smoke from hence 

Fat frankincense ! 
Let balme and cassia send their scent 
From out thy maiden monument ! 
34S 



THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN. 

May no wolfe howle, nor screech-owle stir 

A wing about thy sepulchre ! 

No boysterous winds or storms come hither, 

To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth ; but, like a Spring, 
Love keep it ever nourishing ! 

May all sine maids, at wonted hours, 

Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers ! 

May virgins, when they come to mourn, 

Male incense burn 
Upon thine altar ; then return, 
And leave thee sleeping in thine urn ! 

Rqbert Herrick. 



THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN 

The wanton troopers, riding by, 
Have shot my fawn, and it will die. 
Ungentle men ! they cannot thrive, 
Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive, 
Them any harm ; alas ! nor could 
Thy death yet do them any good. 
I'm sure I never wished them ill, 
Nor do I for all this, nor will ; 
But, if my simple prayers may yet 
Prevail with Heaven to forget 
Thy murder, I will join my tears, 
Rather than fail. But O, my fears ! 
349 



THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN. 

It cannot die so. Heaven's Kins 

Keeps register of everything, 

And nothing may we use in vain ; 

Even beasts must be with justice slain, 

Else men are made their deodands. 

Though they should wash their guilty hands 

In this warm life-blood, which doth part 

From thine and wound me to the heart, 

Yet could they not be clean — their stain 

Is dyed in such a purple grain ; 

There is not such another in 

The world, to offer for their sin. 

Inconstant. Sylvio ! when yet 
I had not found him counterfeit, 
One morning (I remember well), 
Tied in this silver chain and bell, 
Gave it to me. Nay, and I know 
What he said then — I'm sure I do : 
Said he, " Look how your huntsman here 
Hath taught a fawn to hunt his dear!" 
But Sylvio soon had me beguiled : 
This waxed tame, while he grew wild ; 
And, quite regardless of my smart, 
Left me his fawn, but took his heart. 

Thenceforth, I set myself to play 
My solitary time away, 
With this ; and, very well content, 
Could so mine idle life have spent. 
For it was full of sport, and light 
Of foot and heart, and did invite 
Me to its game. It seemed to bless 
350 



TEE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN. 

Itself in me ; how could I less 
Than love it ? O ! I cannot be 
Unkind t' a beast that lovetli me. 

Had it lived long, I do not know 
Whether it, too, might have done so 
As Sylvio did — his gifts might be 
Perhaps as false, or more, than he. 
For I am sure, for aught that I 
Could in so short a time espy, 
Thy love was far more better than 
The love of false and cruel man. 

With sweetest milk, and sugar, first 
I it at mine own fingers nursed ; 
And as it grew, so every day 
It waxed more white and sweet than they. 
It had so sweet a breath ! and oft 
I blushed to see its foot more soft 
And white — shall I say than my hand? 
Nay ! any lady's of the land. 

It is a wondrous thing how fleet 
'Twas, on those little silver feet ! 
With what a pretty, skipping grace 
It oft would challenge me the race ! 
And when 't had left me far away, 
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay ; 
For it was nimbler, much, than hinds, 
And trod as if on the four winds. 

I have a garden of my own, 
But so with roses overgrown, 
And lilies, that you would it guess 
To be a little wilderness ; 

351 



THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN. 

And all the spring-time of the year 

It only loved to be there. 

Among the beds of lilies I 

Have sought it oft, where it should lie ; 

Yet could not, till itself would rise, 

Find it, although before mine eyes ; 

For in the flaxen lilies' shade 

It like a bank of lilies laid. 

Upon the roses it would feed, 

Until its lips ev'n seemed to bleed : 

And then to me 'twould boldly trip, 

And print those roses on my lip. 

But all its chief delight was still 

On roses thus itself to fill, 

And its pure virgin limbs to fold 

In whitest sheets of lilies cold. 

Had it lived long, it would have been 

Lilies without, roses within. 

help ! O help ! I see it faint, 
And die as calmly as a saint ! 

See, how it weeps ! the tears do come, 
Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum. 
So weeps the wounded balsam ; so 
The holy frankincense doth flow; 
The brotherless Heliades 
Melt in such amber tears as these. 

1 in a golden vial will 

Keep these two crystal tears, and fill 
It, till it do o'erflow, with mine ; 
Then place it in Diana's shrine. 

Now my sweet fawn is vanished to 
352 



THE WEEPEN LIADY. 

Whither the swans and turtles go, 

In fair Elysium to endure, 

With milk-white lambs, and ermins pure. 

do not run too fast ! for I 

Will but bespeak thy grave — and die. 

First, my unhappy statue shall 
Be cut in marble ; and withal, 
Let it be weeping too. But there 
Th' engraver sure his art may spare ; 
For I so truly thee bemoan, 
That I shall weep, though I be stone, 
Until my tears, still drooping, wear 
My breast, themselves engraving there. 
There at my feet shalt thou be laid. 
Of purest alabaster made; 
For I would have thine image be 
White as I can, though not as thee. 

Andrew Makvkll. 



THE WEEPEN LIADY. 

When liate o' nights, above the green, 
By thik wold house the moon da sheen, 
A liady there, a-hangen low 
Her head's, a wa'ken to an' fro, 
In robes so white's the driven snow : 
Wi' oon yarm down, while oon da rest, 
All lily-white, athirt the breast 
. O' thik poor weepen liady. 
TT 3.3.3 



THE WEKPEN LIADY. 

The whirdlen win' and whislen squall 
Da shiake the ivy by the wall, 
An' miake the plyen tree-tops rock, 
But never ruffle her white frock ; 
An' slammen door, an' rottlen lock, 
That in thik empty house da zound, 
Da never zeem to iniake look round 
Thik ever downcast liady. 

A liady, as the tiale da goo, 

That oonce lived there, an' loved too true, 

AVer by a young man cast azide : 

A mother zad, but not a bride ; 

An' then her father, in his pride 
An' anger, offered oon o' two 
Vull bitter tilings to undergoo, 

To thik poor weepen liady : 

That she herzuf shood leave his door, 

To darken it aoen noo muore ; 

Ar that her little playsome chile, 

A-zent awoy a thousan' mile, 

Shood never meet her eyes, to smile 
An' play agen ; till she in shiame 
Shood die, an' leave a tarnished niame; 
A zad varziaken liady ! 

" Let me be lost," she cried, " the while 
I da but know var my poor chile ; " 
An' left the huome ov all her pride, 
To wander droo the wordle wide, 
354 



DRIFTING. 

WT grief that vew but she ha tried ; 
An' lik' a flower a blow ha broke, 
She withered wi' thik deadly stroke, 
An' died a weepen liady. 

An' she da keep a-conien on, 
To zee thik father dead an' gone ; 
As if her soul cood ha' noo rest, 
Avore her teary cheak's a-prest 
By his vargiven kiss. Zoo blest 
Be they that can but live in love, 
An' vind a pliace o' rest above, 
Unlik the weepen liady ! 

William Baunks. 



DRIFTING. 



My soul to-day 

Is far away, 
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; 

My winged boat, 

A bird afloat, 
Swims round the purple peaks remote 

Round purple peaks 

It sails, and seeks 
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, 

Where high rocks throw, 

Through deeps below, 
A duplicated golden glow. 

tt * 355 



DRIFTING. 

Far, vague, and dim, 

The mountains swim ; 
While on Vesuvius' misty brim, " 

With outstretched hands 

The gray smoke stands, 
O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 

Here Ischia smiles 

O'er liquid miles ; 
And yonder, bluest of the isles. 

Calm Capri waits, 

Her sapphire gates 
Beguiling to her bright estates. 

I heed not if 

My rippling skiff 
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise. 

Under the walls 

Where swells and falls 
The bay's deep breast at intervals, 

At peace I lie, 

Blown softly by, 
A cloud upon this liquid sky. 

The day, so mild, 
Is Heaven's own child, 
With Earth and Ocean reconciled ; 
356 



DRIFTING. 

The airs I feel 
Around me steal 
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 

Over the rail * 

My hand I trail 
Within the shadow of the sail : 

A joy intense, 

The cooling sense 
Glides down my drowsy indolence. 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Where Summer sings and never dies ; 

O'erveiled with vines, 

She glows and shines 
Among her future oil and wines. 

Her children, hid 

The cliffs amid, 
Are gambolling with the gambolling kid 

Or down the walls, 

With tipsy calls, 
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 

The fisher's child, 

With tresses wild, 
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, 

With glowing lips 

Sings as she skips, 
Or gazes at the far-off ships. 

H57 



DRIFTING. 

Yon deep bark goes 

Where Traffic blows, 
From lands of sun to lands of snows ; 

This happier one, 

Its course is run — 
From lands of snow to lands of sun. 

O happy ship, 

To rise and dip, 
With the blue crystal at your lip ! 

O happy crew, 

My heart with you 
Sails, and sails, and sings anew ! 

.No more, no more 

The worldly shore 
Upbraids me with its loud uproar ! 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise ! 

Thomas Buchanan Read 



??>£ 




EVENING. 

Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, 
That rollest from the gorgeous gloom 
Of evening, over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 



The round of space, and rapt below, 
Through all the dewy-tasselled wood, 
359 



UNSEEN SPIRITS. 

And shadowing down the hqrned flood 
In ripples — fan my brows, and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 
The full new life that feeds thy breath 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death, 

111 brethren, let the fancy fly 

From belt to belt of crimson seas, 

On leagues of odor streaming far, 

To where, in yonder orient star, 
A hundred spirits whisper " Peace ! " 

Alfred Tennyson. 



UNSEEN SPIRITS. 

The shadows lay along Broadway : 

'Twas near the twilight-tide ; 
And slowly there a lady fair 

Was walking in her pride. 
Alone walked she ; but, viewlessly, 

Walked spirits at her side. 

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet. 

And Honor charmed the air ; 
And all astir looked kind on her, 

And called her good as fair ; 
For all God ever gave to her 

She kept with chary care. 







~> 





/ 



^/^Lg^ ^^eZ73C y^-Ae/- 




UNSEEN SPIRITS. 

She kept with care her beauties rare 

From lovers warm and true ; 
For her heart was cold to all but gold, 

And the rich came not to woo. 
But honored well are charms to sell, 

If priests the selling do. 

Now walking there was one more fair, 

A slight girl, lily-pale ; 
And she had unseen company 

To make the spirit quail : 
'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, 

And nothing could avail. 

No mercy now can clear her brow 

For this world's peace to pray ; 
For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, 

Her woman's heart gave way. 
But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven 

By man is cursed alway ! 

Nathaniel Parker Willis. 



uu 361 



MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. 

My life is like the summer rose 

That opens to the morning sky, 
Bnt, ere the shades of evening close, 

Is scattered on the ground — to die ; 
Yet on the rose's humble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are shed. 
As if she wept the waste to see. 
Bat none shall weep a tear for me ! 

My life is like the autumn leaf 

That^ trembles in the moon's pale ray ; 

Its hold is frail, its date is brief : 
Restless — and soon to pass away ; 

Yet ere that leaf shall fall and fade 

The parent tree will mourn its shade, 

The winds bewail the leafless tree. 

But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 

My life is like the prints which feet 
Have left on Tampa's desert strand : 

Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 
All trace will vanish from the sand ; 

Yet, as if grieving to efface 

All vestige of the human race, 

On that lone shore loud moans the sea. 

But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 

Richard Henry Wilde. 
362 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

It was the schooner Hesperus 

That sailed the wintry sea ; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, 
Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds 
That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm : 

His pipe was in his mouth ; 
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 

The smoke — now west, now south. 

Then up and spake an old sailor, 

Had sailed the Spanish main : 
" I pray thee, put into yonder port ; 

For I fear a hurricane. 

" Last night the moon had a golden ring, 
And to-night no moon we see ! " 

The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, 
And a scornful laugh laughed he. 



36 1 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the north-east ; 
The snow fell hissing in the brine. 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain 

The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

" Come hither, come hither ! my little daughter, 

And do not tremble so ; 
For I can weather the roughest gale 

That ever wind did blow." 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat, 

Against the stinging blast ; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 

" O father, I hear the church-bells ring ! 

O say what may it be ? " 
" 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ! " 

And he steered for the open sea. 

" O father, I hear the sound of guns ! 

O say what may it be ? " 
" Some ship in distress, that cannot lire 

In such an angry sea ! " 



304 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

" O father, I see a gleaming light ! 

O say what may it be ? " 
But the father answered, never a word : 

A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 
With his face turned to the skies, 

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 
On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed, 

That saved she might be ; 
And. she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave 

On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
Through the whistling sleet and snow, 

Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept, 
Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever, the fitful gusts between, 

A sound came from the land ; 
It was the sound of the trampling surf 

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows : 

She drifted a dreary wreck ; 
And a whooping billow swept the crew, 

Like icicles, from her deck. 
365 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool ; 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 
With the masts went by the board ; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank : 
Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea- was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 

In the midnight and the snow. 
Christ save us all from a death like this, 

On the reef of Norman's Woe ! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 



3G6 



THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD, MY JEANIE. 

Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie, 

By that pretty white han' o' thine, 
And by a' the lowing stars in heaven, 

That thon wad aye be mine ! 
And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie, 

And by that kind heart o' thine, 
By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven, 

That thou shalt aye be mine ! 

Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic bands, 

And the heart that wad part sic luve ! 
But there's nae hand can loose my band, 

But the finger o' Him abuve. 
Though the wee, wee cot maun be my bield, 

And my claithing ne'er sae mean, 
I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve, 

Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean. 

Her white arm wad be a pillow for me, 

Fu' safter than the down ; 
And Luve wad winnow owre us his kind, kind wings, 

And sweetly I'd sleep, and soun'. 
Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve ! 

Come here and kneel wi' me ! 

367 



WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST. 

The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God, 
And I canna pray without thee. 

The morn wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers, 

The wee birds sing kindlie and hie ; 
Our gudeman leans owre his kale-yard dyke, 

And a blythe auld bodie is he. 
The Beuk maun be ta'en whan the carle comes hame, 

Wi' the holie psalmodie; 
And thou maun speak o' me to thy God, 

And I will speak o' thee. 

Allan Cunningham. 



WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST. 

Where shall the lover rest, 

Whom the fates sever, 
From his true maiden's breast 

Parted forever ? 
Where, through groves deep and high, 

Sounds the far billow, 
Where early violets die, 

Under the willow. 

There, through the summer day, 

Cool streams are laving ; 
There, while the tempests sway, 

Scarce are boughs waving ; 

3G8 



WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST. 

There thy rest shalt thou take, 

Parted forever, 
Never again to wake, 

Never, O never ! 

Where shall the traitor rest, 

He the deceiver, 
Who could win maiden's breast, 

Ruin and leave her ? 
In the lost battle, 

Borne down by the flying, 
Where mingles war's rattle 

With groans of the dying. 

Her wing shall the eagle flap 

O'er the false-hearted ; 
His warm blood the wolf shall lap, 

Ere life be parted. 
Shame and dishonor sit 

By his grave ever ! 
Blessing shall hallow it 

Never, O never ! 



Sir Walter Scott 



369 



PASSING THY DOOR. 

9 ! 'twas the world to me, 

Life too — and more ! 
Catching a glance of thee, 

Passing thy door. 
Faint as an autumn leaf, 

Trembling to part : 
So, in that moment brief, 

Trembled my heart. 

Nothing I saw but thee, 

Nothing could find ; 
Vision had fled from me, 

Lingering behind. 
How I had passed along, 

How found my way, 
Sightless amidst the throng. 

Love could but say. 

How I had moved my feet 

I never knew ; 
I had seen nothing, sweet, 

Since I'd seen you. 
O ! 'twas the world to me, 

Life too — and more ! 
Catching a glance of thee, 

Passing thy door. 

Charlks Swain. 
370 



BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL. 

Hie upon Hielands, 

And low upon Tay, 
Bonnie George Campbell 

Hade out on a day. 
Saddled and bridled 

And gallant rade lie ; 
Hame cam his gude horse, 

But hame cam na he ! 

Out ran his auld mither, 

Greetin' fu' sair ; 
Out ran his bonnie bride, 

Rivin' her hair. 
Saddled and bridled 

And booted rade he ; 
Toom hame cam the saddle, 

But never cam he ! 

" My meadow lies green, 

And my corn is unshorn ; 
My barn is to big, 

And my baby's unborn/' 
Saddled and bridled 

And booted rade he ; 
Toom hame cam the saddle, 

But never cam he ! 

vv* 371 



Anonymous. 



BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND. 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind ! 

Thou art not so unkind 
As man's ingratitude ; 

Thy tooth is not so keen, 

Because thou art not seen, 

Although thy breath be rude. 
Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. 

Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! 

This life is most jolly. 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
Thou dost not bite so nigh 

As benefits forgot ; 
Though thou the waters warp, 
Thy sting is not so sharp 

As friend remembered not. 
Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly : 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly. 
Then, heigh ho! the holly! 
This life is most jolly. 

Shakspeare. 



372 



THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR. 

A youth, light-hearted and content, 

I wander through the world ; 
Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent, 

And straight again is furled. 

Yet oft I dream that once a wife 
Close in my heart was locked, 

And in the sweet repose of life 
A blessed child I rocked. 

I wake ! Away that dream — away ! 

Too long did it remain : 
So long that both by night and day 

It ever comes again. 

The end lies ever in my thought : 
To a grave, so cold and deep, 

The mother beautiful was brought ; 
Then dropped the child asleep. 

But now the dream is wholly o'er, 

I bathe mine eyes and see ; 
And wander through the world once more, 

A youth so light and free. 
373 



THE LORDS OF THULE. 

Two locks — and they are wondrous fair ! 

Left me that vision mild ; 
The brown is from the mother's hair, 

The blond is from the child. 

And when I see that lock of gold 

Pale grows the evening red ; 

And when the dark lock I behold 

„ I wish that I were dead. 

Gustav Pfizer. (German.) 
Translation of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THE LORDS OF THULE. 

The Lords of Thule it did not please 
That Willegis their bishop was ; 
For he was a wagoner's son. 
And they drew, to do him scorn, 
Wheels of chalk upon the wall ; 
He found them in chamber, found them in hall. 
But the pious Willegis 
Could not be moved to bitterness : 
Seeing the wheels upon the wall, 
He bade his servants a painter call ; 
And said — " My friend, paint now for me, 
On every wall, that I may see, 
A wheel of white in a field of red ; 
Underneath, in letters plain to be read, 
37 t 



THE ERL-KING. 



4 Willegis, bishop now by name, 
Forget not whence you came ! ' 



The Lords of Thule were full of shame : 
They wiped away their words of blame , 
For they saw that scorn and jeer 
Cannot wound the wise man's ear. 
And all the bishops that after him came 
Quartered the wheel with their arms of fame. 
Thus came to pious Willegis 
Glory out of bitterness. 

Anonymous. (German.) 



Anonymous Translation. 



THE ERL-KING. 

Who rides so late through the grisly night ? 
'T is a father and child, and he grasps him tight ; 
He wraps him close in his mantle's fold, 
And shelters the boy from the piercing cold. 

" My son, why thus to my arm dost cling ? " 

" Father, dost thou not see the Erlie-King ? 

— The King with his crown and his long black train ! 

" My son, 't is a streak of the misty rain." 

" Come hither, thou darling ! come, go with me ! 
Fine games know I that I '11 play with thee ; 
Flowers many and bright do my kingdoms hold, 
My mother has many a robe of gold." 

375 



t >5 



THE ERL-KING. 



" O father, dear father ! and dost thou not hear 
What the Erlie-King whispers so low in mine ear ? 
" Calm, calm thee, my boy ! it is only the breeze, 
As it rustles the withered leaves under the trees." 



" Wilt thou go, bonny boy ? wilt thou go with me ? 
My daughters shall wait on thee daintilie ; 
My daughters around thee in dance shall sweep, 
And rock thee, and kiss thee, and sing thee to sleep." 







" O father, dear father ! and 

dost thou not mark 
Erlie-King's daughters move by 
in the dark ? " 
" I see it, my child ; but it is not they, — 
'T is the old willow nodding its head so gray/' 

376 



THE PHANTOM. 

" I love thee ! thy beauty, it charms me so ; 
And I '11 take thee by force, if thou wilt not £0 ! " 
" father, clear father ! he 's grasping me : 
JMy heart is as cold as cold can be ! " 

The father rides swiftly — with terror he gasps; 
The sobbing child in his arms he clasps. 
He reaches the castle with spurring and dread ; 
But alack ! in his arms the child lay dead! 

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. (German.) 
Translation of Theodore Martin. 



THE PHANTOM. 

Again I sit within the mansion, 

In the old familiar seat ; 
And shade and sunshine chase each other 

O'er the carpet at my feet. 

But the sweetbrier's arms have wrestled upwards, 

In the summers that are past, 
And the willow trails its branches lower 

Than when I saw them last. 

They strive to shut the sunshine wholly 
From out the haunted room, 



3 77 



THE PHANTOM. 

To fill the house, that once was joyful, 
With silence and with gloom. 

And many kind, remembered faces 

Within the doorway come : 
Voices, that wake the sweeter music 

Of one that now is dumb. 

They sing, in tones as glad as ever, 
The songs she loved to hear ; 

They braid the rose in summer garlands, 
Whose flowers to her were dear. 

And still, her footsteps in the passage, 

Her blushes at the door, 
Her timid words of maiden welcome, 

Come back to me once more ; 

And all forgetful of my sorrow, 

Unmindful of my pain, 
I think she has but newly left me, 

And soon will come again. 

She stays without, perchance, a moment, 
To dress her dark brown hair; 

I hear the rustle of her garments, 
Her light step on the stair ! 

O, fluttering heart, control thy tumult, 
Lest eyes profane should see 



378 



THE MORNING-GLORY. 



My cheeks betray the rush of raptur* 
Her coming brings to me ! 



She tarries long: but lo, a whisper 

Beyond the open door ! 
And, gliding through the quiet sunshine, 

A shadow on the floor ! 

Ah ! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me, 

The vine whose shadow strays ; 
And my patient heart must still await her, 

Nor chide her long delays. 

But my heart grows sick with weary waiting, 

As many a time before: 
Her foot is ever at the threshold, 

Yet never passes o'er. 

Bayard Taylor. 



THE MORNING-GLORY. 

We wreathed about our darling's head 

The morning-glory bright ; 
Her little faee looked out beneath, 

So fall of life and light, 
So lit as with a sunrise, 

That we could only say 
" She is the morning-glory true, 

And her poor types are they.' , 
379 



THE MORNING-GLORY. 

So always, from that happy time, 

We called her by their name ; 
And very fitting did it seem, 

For snre as morning came, 
Behind her cradle bars she smiled 

To catch the first faint ray, 
As from the trellis smiles the flower 

And opens to the day. 

But not so beautiful they rear 

Their airy cups of blue, 
As turned her sweet eyes to the light, 

Brimmed with sleep's tender dew ; 
And not so close their tendrils fine 

Round their supports are thrown, 
As those dear arms whose outstretched plea 

Clasped all hearts to her own. 

We used to think how she had come, 

Even as comes the flower : 
The last and perfect added gift 

To crown Love's morning hour ; 
And how in her was imaged forth 

The love we could not say, 
As on the little dew-drops round 

Shines back the heart of day. 

We never could have thought, O God ! 

That she must wither up, 
Almost before a day was flown, 

Like the morning-glory's cup ; 
380 



THE MORNING-GLORY. 

We never thought to see her droop 

Her fair and noble head, 
Till she lay stretched before our eyes : 

Wilted, and cold, and dead ! 

The morning-glory's blossoming 

Will soon be coming round ; 
We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves 

Upspringing from the ground ; 
The tender things the Winter killed 

Renew again their birth. 
But the glory of our morning 

Has passed away from earth. 

O Earth ! in vain our aching eyes 

Stretch over thy green plain ! 
Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, 

Her spirit to sustain ! 
But up in groves of Paradise 

Full surely we shall see 
Our morning-glory beautiful 

Twine round our dear Lord's knee. 

Maria White Lowell. 



381 



A DIKGE. 

" O dig a grave, and dig it deep, 
Where I and my true-love may sleep ! " 
We! II dig a grave, and dig it deep, 
Where thou and thy true-love shall sleep ! 

" And let it be five fathom low, 
Where winter winds may never blow ! " 
And it shall be five fathom low, 
Where winter winds shall never blow ! 

"And let it be on yonder hill, 
Where grows the mountain daffodil ! '" 
And it shall be on yonder hill, 
Where grows the mountain daffodil! 

" And plant it round with holy briers. 
To fright away the fairy fires ! " 

We'll plant it round with holy briers, 
To fright away the fairy fires ! 

" And set it round with celandine, 
And nodding heads of columbine ! " 
We'll set it round with celandine, 
And nodding heads of columbine ! 

382 



A DIRGE. 

" And let the ruddock build his west 
Just above my true-love's breast ! " 

The ruddock he shall build his nest 

Just above thy true-love's breast ! 

" And warble his sweet wintry song 
O'er our dwelling all day long ! " 

And he shall warble his sweet song 

O'er your dwelling all day long. 

" Now, tender friends, my garments take, 
And lay me out for Jesus' sake ! " 

And we will now thy garments take, 

And lay thee out for Jesus' sake ! 

" And lay me by my true-love's side, 

That I may be a faithful bride ! " 
We'll lay thee by thy true-love's side, 
TJiat thou may'st be a faithful bride ! 

" When I am dead, and buried be, 
Pray to God in heaven for me ! " 
Now thou art dead, we'll bury thee, 
And pray to God in heaven for thee ! 
Benedicite ! 
William Stanley Roscoe. 



383 



OYER THE RIVER. 

Over the river they beckon to me, 

Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side ; 
The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 

But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. 
There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue ; 
He crossed in the twilight, gray and cold, 

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. 
We saw not the angels who met him. there, 

The gates of the city we could not see : 
Over the river, over the river, 

My brother stands waiting to welcome me. 

Over the river the boatman pale 

Carried another, the household pet ; 
Her brown curls wave in the gentle gale : 

Darling Minnie ! I see her yet. 
She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, 

And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; 
We felt it glide from the silver sands, 

And all oar sunshine grew strangely dark. 
We know she is safe on the farther side, 

Where all the ransomed and angels be : 
Over the river, the mystic river, 

My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 

884 



OVER THE RIVER. 

For none return from those quiet shores, 

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale. 
We hear the dip of the golden oars, 

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail ; 
And lo ! they have passed from our yearning hearts : 

They cross the stream and are gone for aye. 
We may not sunder the veil apart 

That hides from our vision the gates of day ; 
We only know that their barks no more 

May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; 
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, 

They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 

Is flushing river and hill and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the water cold 

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar : 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail. 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand, 
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale, 

To the better shore of the spirit-land. 
I shall know the loved who have gone before, 

And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
When over the river, the peaceful river, 

The Angel of Death shall carry me. 

Nancy Amelia Woodbuky Piuesi 



XX 385 



-fliiiiii ■': 




THE BAREFOOT BOY. 

Blessings on thee, little man, 
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
With thy tnrned-up pantaloons, 
And thy merry whistled times ; 
With thy red lip, redder still 



38H 



THE BAREFOOT BOY 

Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; 

With the sunshine on thy face, 

Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace ! 

From my heart I give thee joy : 

I was once a barefoot boy. 

Prince thou art — the grown-up man 

Only is republican. 

Let the million-dollared ride ! 

Barefoot, trudging at his side, 

Thou hast more than he can buy, 

In the reach of ear and eye : 

Outward sunshine, inward joy. 

Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 

O ! for boyhood's painless play, 
Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 
Knowledge never learned of schools : 
Of the wild bee's morning chase, 
Of the wild flower's time and place, 
Flight of fowl, and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood ; 
How the tortoise bears his shell, 
How the woodchuck digs his cell, 
And the ground-mole sinks his well ; 
How the robin feeds her young, 
How the oriole's nest is hung ; 
Where the whitest lilies blow, 
Where the freshest berries grow, 
Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ; 
xx* 387 



THE BAREFOOT BOY. 

Of the black wasp's cunning way, 
Mason of his walls of clay, 
And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans ! 
For, eschewing books and tasks, 
Nature answers all he asks ; 
Hand in hand with her he walks. 
Face to face with her he talks, 
Part and parcel of her joy. 
Blessings on the barefoot boy ! 

for boyhood's time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon, 
When all things I heard or saw, 
Me, their master, waited for ! 

1 was rich in flowers and trees, 
Humming-birds and honey-bees ; 
For my sport the squirrel played, 
Plied the snouted mole his spade ; 
For my taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone ; 
Laughed the brook for my delight, 
Through the day and through the night 
Whispering at the garden wall, 
Talked with me from fall to fall ; 
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 

Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
Apples of Hesperides ! 
Still, as my horizon grew, 
Larger grew my riches too ; 
388 



THE BAREFOOT BOY. 

All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 

O, for festal dainties spread, 
Like my bowl of milk and bread, 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 
On the door-stone, gray and rude ! 
O'er me, like a regal tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent: 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; 
While, for music, came the play 
Of the pied frogs' orchestra ; 
And, to light the noisy choir, 
Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 
I was monarch ; pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boy ! 

Cheerily, then, my little man ! 
Live and laugh as boyhood can ; 
Though the flinty slopes be hard, 
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 
iivery evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat ; 
All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison-cells of pride, 
Lose the freedom of the sod, 
Like a colt's for work be shod, 

389 



FLORENCE VANE. 

Made to tread the mills of toil, 
Up and down in ceaseless moil : 
Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground ; 
Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 

John Gkeknleaf Whittier. 



FLORENCE VANE. 

I loved thee long and dearly, 

Florence Vane ; 
My life's bright dream and early 

Hath come again ; 
I renew, in my fond vision, 

My heart's dear pain : 
My hopes, and thy derision, 

Florence Vane ! 

The ruin, lone and hoary, 

The ruin old, 
Where thou didst hark my story, 

At even told : 
That spot, the hues Elysian 

Of sky and plain, 
I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Vane ! 
390 



<J1«j4p- Cs&r^jz, a_aCLAsT^ ■ 

r ft t y Ae- <^^0 c£sl,co<i~ k.euui^ ^ 

'WtC fot4*+tj £&VULs CC*^(& Ao-tc^-* ^ 



FLORENCE VANE. 

Thou wast lovelier than the roses 

In their prime ; 
Thy voice excelled the closes 

Of sweetest rhyme ; 
Thy heart was as a river 

Without a main. 
Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane ! 

But fairest, coldest wonder ! 

Thy glorious clay 
Lieth the green sod under : 

Alas the day ! 
And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain, 
To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane ! 

The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep ; 
The daisies love to dally 

Where maidens sleep. 
May their bloom, in beauty vying, 

Never wane 
Where thine earthly part is lying, 

Florence Vane ! 

Philip Pendleton Cooke. 



301 



THE ROSE. 

Go, lovely rose ! 
Tell her that wastes her time and me, 

That now she knows, 
When I resemble her to thee, 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

Tell her that's young, 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts, where no men abide, 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired ; 

Bid her come forth, 
Suffer herself to be desired, 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die — that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee : 
How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 

Edmund Waller. 
392 



WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER. 

We have been friends together, 

In sunshine and in shade, 
Since first beneath the chestnut trees 

In infancy we played ; 
But coldness dwells within thy heart, 

A cloud is on thy brow. 
We have been friends together : 

Shall a light word part us now ? 

We have been gay together : 

We have laughed at little jests ; 
For the fount of hope was gushing, 

Warm and joyous, in our breasts ; 
But laughter now hath fled thy lip. 

And sullen glooms thy brow. 
We have been gay together: 

Shall a light word part us now ? 

We have been sad together ; 

We have wept, with bitter tears, 
O'er the grass-grown graves where slumbered 

The hopes of early years ; 
The voices which are silent there 

Would bid thee clear thy brow. 
We have been sad together : 

O ! what shall part us now ? 

Caroline Elizabeth Norton. 
393 



SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN. 

She's gane to dwall in Heaven, my lassie ! 

She's gane to dwall in Heaven : 
Ye're owre pnre, quo' the voice o' God, 

For dwallin' out o' Heaven ! 

O what'll she do in Heaven, my lassie ? 

O what'll she do in Heaven ? 
She'll mix her am thochts wi' angels' sangs. 

An' mak them mair meet for Heaven. 

She was beloved by a', my lassie : 

She Avas beloved by a' ; 
But an angel fell in love wi' her, 

An' took her frae us a'. 

Low there thou lies, my lasrie ! 

Low there thou lies ! 
A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird, 

Nor frae it will arise. 

Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie : 

Fu' soon I'll follow thee. 
Thou's left me naught to covet ahin', 

But took gudeness' seF wi' thee. 
394 



COME, BEAUTEOUS DAY. 

I looked on thy death-cauld face, my lassie , 

I looked on thy death-caukl face : 
Thou seemed a lily new cut i' the bud, 

An' fadin' in its place. 

I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie : 

I looked on thy death-shut eye ; 
An' a lovelier light in the brow o' Heaven 

Fell Time shall ne'er destroy. 

Thy lips were ruddy an' calm, my lassie : 

Thy lips were ruddy an' calm ; 
But gane was the holy breath o' Heaven 

To sing the evening psalm. 

There's naught but dust now mine, lassie : 

There's naught but dust now mine. 
My soul's wi' thee i' the cauld grave, 

An' why should I stay ahin' ? 

Allan Cunningham. 



COME, BEAUTEOUS DAY. 

Come, beauteous day ! 
Never did lover on his bridal night 
So chide thine over-eager light 

As I thy long delay ! 



395 



COME, BEAUTEOUS DAY. 

Bring me my rest ! 
Never can these sweet thorny roses, 
Whereon my heart reposes, 

Be into slumber pressed. 

Day be my night ! 
Night hath no stars to rival with her eyes ; 
Night hath no peace like his who lies 

Upon her bosom white. 

She did transmute 
This my poor cell into a paradise, 
Gorgeous with blossoming lips and dewy eyes, 

And all her beauty's fruit. 

Nor dull nor gray 
Seems to mine eyes this dim and wintry morn : 
Ne'er did the rosy banners of the dawn 

Herald a brighter day. 

Come, beauteous day ! 
Come ! or in sunny light, or storm eclipse ! 
Bring me the immortal Summer of her lips ; 

Then have thy way ! 

William Henry Hurlbct. 



39f. 



A LITTLE WHILE. 

Beyond the smiling and the weeping 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the waking and the sleeping, 
Beyond the sowing and the reaping, 
I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and liome ! 
Sweet hope ! 
Lord, tarry not, but come ! 

Beyond the blooming and the fading 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the shining and the shading, 
Beyond the hoping and the dreading, 
I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 
Sweet hope! 
Lord, tarry not, but come! 

Beyond the rising and the setting 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the calming and the fretting, 
Beyond remembering and forgetting, 
I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home! 
Sweet hope! 

Lord, tarry not, but come! 
39? 



A LITTLE WHILE. 

Beyond the gathering and the strowing 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the ebbing and the flowing, 
Beyond the coming and the going, 
T shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 
Sweet hope ! 
Lord, tarry not, but come! 

Beyond the parting and the meeting 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the farewell and the greeting, 
Beyond this pulse's fever-beating, 
I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 
/Sweet hope! 
Lord, tarry not, but come ! 

Beyond the frost-chain and the lever 

I shall be soon ; 
Beyond the rock-waste and the river, 
Beyond the ever and the never, 
I shall be soon. 
Love, rest, and home ! 
Sweet hope ! 
Lord, tarry not, but come! 

HOKATIUS BONAK. 



398 




LULLABY. 

Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea ! 
Low, low, breathe and blow. 



Over the rolling waters go ; 

Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me ; 
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 
399 



MEA CULPA 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest ! 

Father will come to thee soon. 
Rest, rest on mother's breast : 

Father will come to thee soon ! 
Father will come to his babe in the nest ; 
Silver sails all out of the west, 

Under the silver moon. 
Sleep, my little one !. sleep, my pretty one, sleep ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 



MEA CULPA. 

At me one night the angry moon, 
Suspended to a rim of cloud, 
Glared through the courses of the wind. 
Suddenly there my spirit bowed, 
And shrank into a fearful swoon 
That made me deaf and blind. 

We sinned — we sin : is that a dream ? 
We wake — there is no voice nor stir ; 
Sin and repent from day to day — 
As though some reeking murderer 
Should dip his hand in a running stream, 
And lightly go his way. 

Embrace me, fiends and wicked men, 
For I am of your crew ! Draw back, 
Pure women, children with clear eyes ! 
Let Scorn confess me on his rack — 
Stretched down by force, uplooking then 
Into the solemn skies ! 
400 



HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 

Singly we pass the gloomy gate — 
Some robed in honor, full of peace, 
Who of themselves are not aware, 
Being fed with secret wickedness, 
And comforted with lies : my fate 
Moves fast — I shall come there. 

All is so usual, hour by hour ; 

Men's spirits are so lightly twirled 

By every little gust of sense. 

Who lays to heart this common world ? 

Who lays to heart the Ruling Power — 

Just, infinite, intense ? 

Thou wilt not frown, O God ! Yet we 
Escape not thy transcendent law ; 
It reigns within us and without. 
What earthly vision never saw 
Man's naked soul may suddenly see — 
Dreadful, past thought or doubt ! 



Anonymous. 



HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 

Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle 

From rainbow 7 galaxies of earth's creation, 
And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle 
As a libation ! 

Ye matin worshippers ! who bending lowly 

Before the uprisen sun — God's lidless eye — 
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
Incense on high ! 
401 



HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 

Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty 

The floor of Nature's temple tessellate : 
What numerous emblems of instructive duty 
Your forms create ! 

'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth, 

And tolls its perfume on the passing air, 
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
A call to prayer. 

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column 

Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, 
Which God hath planned : 

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 

Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply — 
Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, 
Its dome the sky. 

There — -as in solitude and shade I wander 

Through the green aisles, or, stretched upon the sod, 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God — 

Your voiceless lips, O Flowers, are living preachers, 

Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
From loneliest nook. 

Floral Apostles ! that in dewy splendor 

" Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," 
O may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender, 
Your lore sublime ! 

402 



HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 

" Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory, 

Arrayed," the lilies cry, " in robes like ours : 
How vain your grandeur ! Ah, how transitory 
Are human flowers ! " 

In the sweet-scented pictures, Heavenly Artist, 

With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall, 
What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
Of love to all I 

Not useless are ye, Flowers ! though made for pleasure 

Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night, 
From every source your sanction bids me treasure 
Harmless delight. 

Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary 

For such a world of thought could furnish scope ? 
Each fading calyx a memento mori, 

Yet fount of hope. 

Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection ! 

Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, 
Ye are to me a type of resurrection, 
And second birth. 

Were I, O God, in churchless lands remaining, 

Far from all voice of teachers or divines, 
My soul would find, in flowers of Thy ordaining, 
Priests, sermons, shrines ! 

Horace Smith. 



403 



THE CROWDED STREET. 

Let ine move slowly through the street, 
Filled with an ever-shifting train, 

Amid the sound of steps that beat 

The murmuring walks like autumn rain. 

How fast the flitting figures come ! 

The mild, the fierce, the stony face : 
Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some 

Where secret tears have left their trace ! 

They pass — to toil, to strife, to rest : 
To halls in which the feast is spread, 

To chambers where the funeral guest 
In silence sits beside the dead. 

And some to happy homes repair, 

Where children, pressing cheek to cheek 
With mute caresses, shall declare 
The tenderness they cannot speak. 

And some, who walk in calmness here. 
Shall shudder as they reach the door 

Where one who made their dwelling dear, 
Its flower, its light, is seen no more. 
404 



THE CROWDED STREET. 

Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, 
And dreams of greatness in thine eye, 

Go'st thou to build an early name, 
Or early in the task to die ? 

Keen son of trade, with eager brow, 
Who is now fluttering in thy snare ? 

Thy golden fortunes, tower they now ? 
Or melt the glittering spires in air ? 

Who of this crowd to-night shall tread 
The dance, till daylight gleams again ? 

Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead ? 
Who writhe in throes of mortal pain? 

Some, famine-struck, shall think how long 
The cold, dark hours — how slow the light 

And some, who flaunt amid the throng, 
Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. 

Each where his tasks or pleasures call, 
They pass, and heed each other not ; 

There is who heeds, who holds them all, 
In His large love and boundless thought. 



-&" 



These struggling tides of life, that seem 

In wayward, aimless course to tend, 
Are eddies of the mighty stream 

That rolls to its appointed end. 

William Cullen Bkyant. 



405 



A DEAD ROSE. 

O rose ! who dares to name thee ? 

No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet ; 

But barren and hard, and dry as stubble-wheat : 

Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee. 

The breeze that used to blow thee 

Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away 

An odor up the lane, to last all day, 

If breathing now, unsweetened would forego thee. 

The sun that used to smite thee, 

And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn, 

Till beam appeared to bloom and flower to burn, 

If shining now, with not a hue would light thee. 

The dew that used to wet thee, 

And, white first, grew incarnadined, because 

It lay upon thee where the crimson was, 

If dropping now, would darken where it met thee. 

The fly that lit upon thee 
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet 
Along the leaf's pure edges after heat, 
If lighting now, would coldly overrun thee. 
406 



THE MOTHER'S FIRST GRIEF. 

The bee that once did suck thee, 
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive, 
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive, 
If passing now, would blindly overlook thee. 

The heart doth recognize thee, 
Alone, alone ! The heart doth smell thee sweet, 
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete, 
Though seeing now these changes that disguise thee. 

Yes, and the heart doth owe thee 

More love, dead rose, than to such roses bold 

As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold. 

Lie still upon this heart, which breaks below thee ! 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



THE MOTHER'S FIRST GRIEF. 

She sits beside the cradle, 

And her tears are streaming fast, 
For she sees the present only, 

While she thinks of all the past : 
Of the days so full of gladness, 

When her first-born's answering kiss 
Thrilled her soul with such a rapture 

That it knew no other bliss. 
O those happy, happy moments ! 

They but deepen her despair ; 

407 



THE MOTHER'S FIRST GRIEF. 

For she bends above the cradle, 
And her baby is not there ! 

There are words of comfort spoken, 

And the leaden clouds of grief 
Wear the smiling bow of promise, 

And she feels a sad relief; 
But her wavering; thoughts will wander, 

Till they settle on the scene 
Of the dark and silent chamber, 

And of all that might have been. 
For a little vacant garment, 

Or a shining tress of hair, 
Tells her heart, in tones of anguish, 

That her baby is not there ! 

She sits beside the cradle, 

But her tears no longer flow, 
For she sees a blessed vision, 

And forgets all earthly woe ; 
Saintly eyes look down upon her, 

And the Voice that hushed the sea 
Stills her spirit with the whisper, 

" Suffer them to come to Me." 
And while her soul is lifted 

On the soaring wings of prayer, 
Heaven's crystal gates swing inward, 

And she sees her baby there ! 

Robkrt Smyth Chilton 



40s 



YE MEANER BEAUTIES. 



Yk meaner beauties of the night, 

That poorly satisfy our eyes, 
More by your numbers than your light: 

Ye common people of the skies ! 

What are you when the moon shall rise? 

Ye violets that first appear, 

By your pure purple mantles known, 

Like the proud virgins of the year, 
As if the Spring were all your own ! 
What are you when the rose is blown ? 

Ye curious chanters of the wood, 

That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, 

Thinking your passions understood 

By your weak accents ! — what's your praise 
When Philomel her voice shall raise ? 

So when my mistress shall be seen 
In sweetness of her looks and mind, 

By virtue first, then choice, a queen : 
Tell me, if she was not designed 
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind ? 

Sir Hknry Wotton. 



409 



WIND AND RAIN. 



Rattle the window, Winds ! 

Rain, drip on the panes ! 
There are tears and sighs in our hearts and eyes, 

And a weary weight on our brains. 




The gray sea heaves and heaves, 

On the dreary flats of sand ; 
And the blasted limb of the churchyard yew, 

It shakes like a ghostly hand ! 



The dead are engulfed beneatli it, 

Sunk in the grassy waves ; 
But we have more dead in our hearts to-day 
Than the Earth in all her graves ! 

Richard Henry Stoddard. 
410 



A HEALTH. 

I fill this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone : 
A woman — of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon ; 
To whom the better elements 

And kindly stars have given 
A form so fair, that, like the air, 

'Tis less of Earth than Heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own, 

Like those of morning birds ; 
And something more than melody 

Dwells ever in her words : 
The coinage of her heart are they, 

And from her lips each flows 
As one may see the burdened bee 

Forth issue from the rose. 

Affections are as thoughts to her, 

The measures of her hours ; 
Her feelings have the fragrancy, 

The freshness of young flowers ; 
And lovely passions, changing oft, 

So fill her, she appears 
The image of themselves bv turns, 

The idol of past years. 

A A A * 411 



ABSENCE. 

On her bright face one glance will trace 

A picture on the brain, 
And of her voice in echoing hearts 

A sound must long remain ; 
But memory, such as mine of her, 

So very much endears, 
When death is nigh my latest sigh 

Will not be life's, but hers. 

1 fill this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone : 
A woman — of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon. 
Her health ! and would on earth there stood 

Some more of such a frame, 
That life might be all poetry, 

And weariness a name. 

Edward Coatk Pinkney. 



ABSENCE. 

What shall I do with all the days and hours 
That must be counted ere I see thy face ? 

How shall I charm the interval that lowers 

Between this time and that sweet time of grace? 

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense, 
Weary with longing ? Shall I flee away 

Into past days, and with some fond pretence 
Cheat myself to forget the present day ? 
412 



ABSENCE. 

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin 
Of casting from me God's great gift of time ? 

Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, 
Leave and forget life's purposes sublime ? 

! how, or by what means, may I contrive 

To bring the hour that brings thee back more near ? 
How may I teach my drooping hope to live 
Until that blessed time, and thou art here ? 

I'll tell thee: for thy sake I will lay hold 
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, 

In worthy deeds, each moment that is told, 
While thou, beloved one, art far from me. 

For thee I will arouse my thoughts, to try 

All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains ; 

For thy dear sake I will walk patiently 

Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains. 

1 will this dreary blank of absence make 

A noble task-time ; and will therein strive 
To follow excellence, and to o'ertake 

More (rood than I have won since vet I live. 



& 



So may this doomed time build up in me 

A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine ! 

So may my love and longing hallowed be, 
And thy dear thought an influence divine ! 

Frances Kemble Butler. 



413 



A WISH. 

Mine be a cot beside the hill ! 

A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear; 
A willowy brook, that turns a mill, 

With many a fall shall linger near. 

The swallow oft, beneath my thatch, 
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; 

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, 

And share my meal — a welcome guest. 

Around my ivied porch shall spring 

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 

And Lucy at her wheel shall sing, 
In russet gown, and apron blue. 

The village church, among the trees, 

Where first our marriage vows were given, 

With merry peals shall swell the breeze, 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 

Samuel Rogers. 



41 l 



ODE ON SOLITUDE. 

Happy the man whose wish and care 

A few paternal acres bound, 
Content to breathe his native air, 

In his own ground ; 
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 

Whose flocks supply him with attire ; 
Whose trees in Summer yield him shade, 

In Winter fire. 
Blest who can unconcern'dly find 

Hours, days, and years slide soft away, 
In health of body, peace of mind ; 

Quiet by day, 
Sound sleep by night ; study and ease, 

Together mixt ; sweet recreation ; 
And innocence, which most does please 

With meditation. 
Thus let me live — unseen, unknown: 

Thus unlamented let me die ! 
Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie ! 

Alkxaxdkk Pope. 



415 




BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers ■ 

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's 

tears ; 
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, 
And bent with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. 
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, 
And he said "I never more shall see my own, my native land. 
Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine ; 
For T was born at Bino-en — at Bino-en on the Rhine. 



kt Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd 

around, 
To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, 
That we fougk. the battle bravely ; and when the day was done, 
Fiili many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun. 

416 



BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 



And midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars, 
The death-wounds on their gallant breasts the last of many sears ; 
But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline ; 
And one had come from Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine! 

" Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, 

For I was still a truant bird that thought his home a caoe : 

For my father was a soldier, and even as a child 

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild ; 

And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, 

I let them take whate'er they would — but kept my father's sword; 

And with boyish love I hung it, where the bright light used to 

shine, 
On the cottao-e wall at Binoen — calm Bincren on the Rhine. 

© o © 

kk Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, 
When the troops come marching home again, with glad and gallant 

tread ; 
But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, 
For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die ; 
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name 
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame ; 
And to hang the old sword in its place, my father's sword and mine, 
For the honor of old Bingen — dear Bingen on the Rhine. 

" There's another, not a sister : in the happy days gone by 

You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye ; 

Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning : 

O, friend ! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest 

mourning. 
Tell her the last night of my life (for ere this moon be risen, 

BBB 417 



BINGEN ON THE KH1NE. 









> \ J ' 



3Pyb 



^s 




My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison), 

I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine 

On the vine-clad hills of Bin^en — fair Biiwen on the Rhine. 



" I saw the blue Rhine sweep along ; I heard, or seemed to hear, 
The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear ; - 
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, 
The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still ; 
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly 

talk, 
Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk ; 
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine : 
But we'll meet no more at Bingen — loved Bingen on the Rhine ! " 



His voice grew faint and hoarse — his grasp was childish weak ; 
His eyes put on a dying look — lie sighed, and ceased to speak ; 

418 



THE SEA. 

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled : 
The soldier of the Leo-ion in a foreign land was dead! 
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down 
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown. 
Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, 
As it shone on distant Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine. 

Caroline Elizabeth Norton. 




THE SEA. 



Through the night, through the night. 

In the saddest unrest, 
Wrapt in white, all in white, 

With her babe on her breast, 
Walks the mother so pale, 
Staring out on the gale 

Through the night ! 
419 



HOME, SWEET HOME. 

Through the night, through the night, 

Where the sea lifts the wreck, 
Land in sight, close in sight ! 

On the surf-flooded deck 
Stands the father so brave, 
Driving on to his grave 

Through the night ! 

Richard Henry Stoddard 



HOME, SWEET HOME ! 

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we. may roam, 

Be it never so humble, there's no place like home ! 

A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, 

Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere 

Home, home ! Sweet home ! 

There's no place like home ! 

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ; 

O give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! 

The birds singing gayly, that came at my call : 

Give me these, and the peace of mind dearer than all. 

Home, home! Sweet home! 

There's no place like home! 

John Howard Payne. 



420 



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-\aJ 









tf^L^^ J <ZS/0'~-Cc/ -tk^t^^^Z^Z^sy^-je-J , 



/ 



WHEN THE KYE COME HAME. 

My heartstrings round thee cling, 

Close as thy bark, old friend ! 
Here shall the wild bird sing, 

And still thy branches bend. 
Old tree, the storm still brave ; 

And, woodman, leave the spot : 
While I've a hand to save, 

Thine axe shall harm it not. 

George P. Mourns. 



WHEN THE KYE COME HAME. 

Come all ye jolly shepherds, 

That whistle through the glen ! 
I'll tell ye o' a secret 

That courtiers dinna ken : . 
What is the greatest bliss 

That the tongue o' man can name ? 
'Tis to woo a bonnie lassie 
AVhen the kye come hame. 
When the kye come hame, 
When the kye come hame : 
' ' Tween the gloamirf an" 1 the mirk, 
When the kye come hame. 

'Tis not beneath the burgonet, 
Nor yet beneath the crown ; 

'Tis not on couch o' velvet, 
Nor yet in bed o' down : 
422 



when tup: kye come hame. 

Tis beneath the spreading birk, 
In the glen without the name, 

Wi' a bonnie bonnie lassie, 
When the kye come hame. 

There the blackbird bigs his nest. 

For the mate he lo'es to see, 
And on the tapmost bough 

O, a happy bird is he ! 
There he pours his melting ditty, 

And love is a' the theme ; 
And he'll woo his bonnie lassie, 

When the kye come hame. 

When the blewart bears a pearl, 

And the daisy turns a pea, 
And the bonnie lucken gowan 

Has fauldit up his ee, 
Then the lavrock, frae the blue lift, 

Draps down and thinks nae shame 
To woo his bonnie lassie, 

When the kye come hame. 

See yonder pawky shepherd, 

That lingers on the hill : 
His yowes are in the fauld, 

And his lambs are lying still ; 
Yet he downa ffancr to bed, 

For his heart is in a flame, 
To meet his bonnie lassie 

When the kye come hame. 



WHEN THE KYE COME HAME. 

When tlie little wee bit heart 

Rises high in the breast, 
And the little wee bit starn 

Rises red in the east, 
O ! there's a joy sae dear 

That the heart can hardly frame, 
Wi' a bonnie bonnie lassie, 

When the kye come liame. 

Then since all Nature joins 

In this love without alloy, 
O ! wha wad prove a traitor 

To Nature's dearest joy ? 
Or wha wad choose a crown, 
Wi' its perils an' its fame, 
And miss his bonnie lassie, 
When the kye come hame, 

When the kye come hame : 
When the kye come hame ; 
'Tween the gloamiri art the mirk, 
When the kye come hame. 

James Hogg. 



424 



THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 

Word was brought to the Danish king, 

(Hurry!) 
That the love of his heart lay suffering, 
And pined for the comfort his voice would bring ; 

(O ! ride as though you were flying !) 
Better he loves each golden curl 
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl 
Than his rich crown-jewels of ruby and pearl ; 

And his Rose of the Isles is dying. 

Thirty nobles saddled with speed ; 

(Hurry D 
Each one mounted a crallant steed 
Which he kept for battle and days of need : 

(O ! ride as though you were flying!) 
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank ; 
Worn-out chargers staowred and sank ; 
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst : 
But ride as they would, the king rode first ; 
For his Rose of the Isles lay dying. 

His nobles are beaten, one by one ; 

(Hurry !) 
They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone 
425 



THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 

His little fair page now follows alone, 

For strength and for courage trying. 
The kin^ looked back at that faithful child : 
Wan was the face that answering smiled. 
They passed the drawbridge with clattering din : 
Then he dropped ; and only the king rode in 

Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying. 

The kino; blew a blast on his bugle horn ; 

(Silence !) 
No answer came, but faint and forlorn 
An echo returned on the cold gray morn, 

Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 
The castle portal stood grimly wide ; 
None welcomed the king from that weary ride ; 
For, dead in the light of the dawning day, 
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, 

Who had yearned for his voice while dying. 

The panting steed with a drooping crest 

Stood weary. 
The king returned from her chamber of rest, 
The thick sobs choking in his breast ; 

And, that dumb companion eyeing, 
The tears gushed forth, which he strove to check ; 
He bowed his head on his charger's neck : 
" O, steed, that every nerve didst strain, 
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain, 

To the halls where my love lay dying ! " 

Caroline Elizabeth Nouton. 



426 



THE MAIDEN'S CHOICE. 

Genteel in personage, 
Conduct and equipage ; 
Noble by heritage, 

Generous and free ; 
Brave, not romantic ; 
Learned, not pedantic ; 
Frolic, not frantic : 

This must he be. 

Honor maintaining, 
Meanness disdaining, 
Still entertaining, 

Engaging and new ; 
Neat, but not finical ; 
Sage, but not cynical ; 
Never tyrannical, 

But ever true. 



Henuy Fielding. 



427 



I'M GROWING OLD. 

My days pass pleasantly away, 

My nights are blest with sweetest sleep ; 
I feel no symptoms of decay, 

I have no cause to mourn nor weep ; 
My foes are impotent and shy, 

My friends are neither false nor cold ; 
And yet, of late, I often sigh : 

" I'm growing old." 

My growing talk of olden times, 
My growing thirst for early news, 

My growing apathy to rhymes, 
My growing love of easy shoes, 

My growing hate of crowds and noise, 
My Growing fear of taking; cold : 

All whisper, in the plainest voice, 

I'm growing old. 

I'm growing fonder of my staff, 

I'm growing dimmer in the eyes, 
I'm growing fainter in my laugh, 

I'm growing deeper in my sighs, 
I'm growing careless of my dress, 
I'm growing frugal of my gold, 
I'm growing wise, I'm growing — yes, 
I'm growing old. 
42$ 



I'M GROWING OLD. 

I see it in my changing taste, 
I see it in my changing hair, 

I see it iii my growing waist, 
I see it in my growing heir : 

A thousand signs proclaim the truth, 
As plain as truth was ever told, 

That, even in my vaunted youth, 

I'm growing old. 

Ah me ! my very laurels breathe 
The tale in my reluctant ears, 

And every boon the Hours bequeathe 
But makes me debtor to the Years. 

E'en Flattery's honeyed words declare 
The secret she would fain withhold, 

And tell me, in " How young you are,' 
I'm growing old. 



& 



Thanks for the years whose rapid flight. 

My sombre muse too sadly sings ! 
Thanks for the gleams of golden light 

That tint the darkness of their wings : 
The light that beams from out the sky, 
Those Heavenly mansions to unfold , 
Where all are blest, and none may sigh 
" I'm growing old ! " 

John Godfrey Saxk 



429 



DINNA ASK A1E. 

O ! uinna ask me gin I lo'e y«? : 

Troth, I daurna tell ! 
Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye ; 

Ask it o' yoursel'. 

O, dinna look sae sair at me, 

For weel ye ken me true ; 
O, gin ye look sae sair at me, 

I daurna look at you. 

When ye gang to yon braw braw town, 

And bonnier lassies see, 
O, dinna, Jamie, look at them, 

Lest ye should mind na me. 

For I could never bide the lass 

That ye'd lo'e mair than me ; 
And O, I'm sure my heart wad break, 

Gin ye'd prove fause to me ! 

J)unlop. 



430 




SONG OF THE BROOK. 



I come from haunts of coot and hern ; 

I make a sudden sally, 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 
431 



SONG OF THE BROOK. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 
Or slip between the ridges : 

Hy twenty thorps, a little town, 
And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm 1 flow, 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 

I chatter over stony ways, 
In little sharps and trebles ; 

I bubble into eddying bays, 
I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret, 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 



I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river ; 

For men may come and men ma)" go, 
But I go on forever. 



I wind about, and in and out, 
With here a blossom sailing, 

And here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling, 
432 



SONG OF THE BROOK. 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel, 
With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel ; 

And draw them all along, and flow 

To join the brimming river ; 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots : 

I slid6 by hazel covers ; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 

Among my skimming swallows ; 
1 make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses ; 
I linger by my shingly bars ; 

T loiter round my cresses. 

And out again I curve and flow, 

To join the brimming river ; 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

Alfrkd Tennyson 

EEE 433 



THE WAR-SONG OF DIN AS VAM. 

The mountain sheep are sweeter, 
But the valley sheep are fatter ; 
We therefore deemed it meeter 
To carry off the latter. 
We made an expedition ; 
We met a host, and quelled it ; 
We forced a strong position, 
And killed the men who held it. 

On Dyfed's richest valley, 

Where herds of kine were browsing, 

We made a mighty sally, 

To furnish our carousing. 

Fierce warriors rushed to meet us ; 

We met them, and o'erthrew them. 

They struggled hard to heat us ; 

But we conquered them, and slew them. 

As we drove our prize at leisure, 
The king marched forth to catch us ; 
His rage surpassed all measure, 
But his people could not match us. 

434 



THE WAR-SONG OF DINAS VAWR 

He fled to his hall pillars ; 
And, ere our force we led off, 
Some sacked his house and cellars, 
While others cut his head off. 

We there, in strife bewildering, 
Spilt blood enough to swim in : 
We orphaned many children, 
And widowed many women. 
The eagles and the ravens 
We glutted with our foemen : 
The heroes and the cravens, 
The spearmen and the bowmen. 

We brought away from battle, 

(And much their land bemoaned them), 

Two thousand head of cattle, 

And the head of him who owned them : 

Ednyfed, king of Dyfed, 

His head was borne before as ; 

His wine and beasts supplied our feasts, 

His overthrow our chorus. 

Thomas Love Peacock. 



435 



MOTHER MARGERY. 

On a bleak ridge, from whose granite edges 

Sloped the rough land to the grisly north, 
And whose hemlocks, clinging to the ledges, 

Like a thin banditti staggered forth : 
In a crouching, wormy-timbered hamlet 

Mother Margery shivered in the cold, 
With a tattered robe of faded camlet 

On her shoulders — crooked, weak, and old ! 

Time on her had done his cruel pleasure ; 

For her face was very dry and thin, 
And the records of his growing measure 

Lined and cross-lined all her shrivelled skin. 
Scanty goods to her had been allotted, 

Yet her thanks rose oftener than desire ; 
While her bony fingers, bent and knotted, 

Fed with withered twigs the dying fire. 

Raw and weary were the northern winters ; 

Winds howled piteously around her cot, 
Or with rude sighs made the jarring splinters 

Moan the misery she bemoaned not. 
Drifting tempests rattled at her windows, 

And hung snow-wreaths round her naked bed ; 
While the wind-flaws muttered on the cinders, 

Till the last spark fluttered and was dead. 
436 



MOTHER MARGERY. 

Life had fresher hopes when she was younger, 

But their dying wrung out no complaints ; 
Chill, and penury,, and neglect, and hunger, 

These to Margery were guardian saints. 
When she sat, her head was, prayer-like, bending ; 

When she rose, it rose not any more. 
Faster seemed her true heart graveward tending 

Than her tired feet, weak and travel-sore. 

She was mother of the dead and scattered, 

Had been mother of the brave and fair ; 
But her branches, bough by bough, were shattered, 

Till her torn breast was left dry and bare. 
Yet she knew, though sadly desolated, 

When the children of the poor depart 
Their earth-vestures are but sublimated, 

So to gather closer in the heart. 

With a courage that had never fitted 

Words to speak it to the soul it blessed, 
She endured, in silence and unpitied, 

Woes enough to mar a stouter breast: 
Thus was born such holy trust within her 

That the graves of all who had been dear, 
To a region clearer and serener 

Raised her spirit from our chilly sphere. 

They were footsteps on her Jacob's ladder ; 

Angels to her were the loves and hopes 
Which had left her purified, but sadder ; 

And they lured her to the emerald slopes 
437 



MOTHER MARGERY. 

Of that Heaven where Anguish never flashes 
Her red fire- whips — happy land, where flowers 

Blossom over the volcanic ashes 

Of this blighting, blighted world of ours ! 

All her power was a love of goodness ; 

All her wisdom was a mystic faith 
That the rough world's jargoning and rudeness 

Turn to music at the gate of Death. 
So she walked, while feeble limbs allowed her, 

Knowing well that any stubborn grief 
She might meet with could no more than crowd her 

To that wall whose opening was relief. 

So she lived, an anchoress of sorrow, 

Lone and peaceful, on the rocky slope ; 
And, when burning trials came, would borrow 

New fire of them for the lamp of hope. 
When at last her palsied hand, in groping, 

Rattled tremulous at the grated tomb, 
Heaven flashed round her joys beyond her hoping, 

And her young soul gladdened into bloom. 

George Shepherd Burleigh. 



438 



THE WIDOW AND CHILD. 

Home they brought her warrior dead ; 

She nor swooned, nor uttered cry. 
All her maidens, watching, said 

" She must weep, or she will die ! " 

Then they praised him, soft and low ; 

Called him worthy to be loved : 
Truest friend and noblest foe ! 

Yet she neither spake nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place, 

Lightly to the warrior stept, 
Took a face-cloth from the face ; 

Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years, 

Set his child upon her knee. 
Like summer tempest came her tears : 

44 Sweet my child, I live for thee ! " 

Alfred Tennyson. 



439 



LOUIS XV. 

The king, with all the kingly train, had left his Pompadour be- 
hind, 

And forth he rode in Senart's wood, the royal beasts of chase to 
find. 

That day, by chance, the monarch mused ; and turning suddenly 
away, 

He struck alone into a path that far from crowds and courtiers lay. 

He saw the pale green shadows play upon the brown untrodden 
earth ; 

He saw the birds around him flit, as if he were of peasant birth ; 

He saw the trees, that know no king but him who bears a wood- 
land axe ; 

He thought not — but he looked about, like one who still in thinking 
lacks. 

Then close to him a footstep fell, and glad of human sound was he ; 

For, truth to say, he found himself but melancholy companie. 

But that which he would ne'er have guessed before him now most 

plainly came : 
The man upon his weary back a coffin bore of rudest frame. 

" Why, who art thou?" exclaimed the king; "and what is that I 

see thee bear ? " 
" I am a laborer in the wood, and 'tis a coffin for Pierre. 

440 



LOUIS XV. 

Close by the royal hunting-lodge you may have often seen him toil; 
But he will never work again, and I for him must dig the soil." 

The laborer ne'er had seen the king, and this he thought was but 
a man ; 

Who made at first a moment's pause, and then anew his talk be- 
gan : 

" I think I do remember now — he had a dark and glancing eye ; 

And I have seen his sturdy arm with wondrous stroke the pickaxe 

Pty- 

" Pray tell me, friend, what accident can thus have killed our good 

Pierre ? " 
" O, nothing more than usual, sir : he died of living upon air. 
'Twas hunger killed the poor good man, who long on empty hopes 

relied ; 
He could not pay gabelle and tax, and feed his children — so he 

died." 

The man stopped short ; and then went on — " It is, you know, a 

common story : 

Our children's food is eaten up by courtiers, mistresses, and glory." 

The king looked hard upon the man, and afterwards the coffin eyed ; 

Then spurred to ask, of Pompadour, how came it that the peasants 

died. 

John Sterling. 



fff 441 



THE WONDERFU' WEAN. 

Our wean's the most wonderfu' wean e'er I saw ; 

It would tak me a lang simmer day to tell a' 

His pranks, frae the mornin' till night shuts his ee, 

When he sleeps like a peerie, 'tween father and me ; 

For in his quite turns siccan questions he'll speir ! 

How the moon can stick up in the sky that's sae clear ? 

What gars the wind blaw ? and whar frae comes the rain ' 

He's a perfec' divirt — he's a wonderfu' wean! 

Or wha was the first bodie's father ? and wha 
Made the vera first snaw-shooer that ever did fa' ? 
And wha made the first bird that sano- on a tree ? 
And the water that sooms a' the ships in the sea ? 
But after I've told him as weel as I ken, 
Again he begins wi' his wha and his when ; 
And he looks aye sae wistfu' the whiles I explain : 
He's as auld as the hills — he's an auld-farrant wean. 

And folk wha hae skill o' the lumps on the head 
Hint there's mae ways than toilin' o' winnin' ane's bread ; 
How he'll be a rich man, and hae men to work for him, 
Wi' a kyte like a baillie's, shug-shuggin' afore him; 
Wi' a face like the moon — sober, sonsy, and douce, 
And a back, for its breadth, like the side o' a house. 

442 



THE WONDERFU' WEAN. 

'Tweel ! I'm unco ta'en up wi't — they mak a' sae plain. 
He's just a town's talk ; lie's a by-orcTnar wean ! 

I ne'er can forget sic a laugh as I gat, 

To see him put on father's waistcoat and hat ; 

Then the lang-leggit boots gaed sae far owre his knees 

The tap-loops wi' his fingers he grippit wi' ease ; 

Then he marched through the house, he marched but, he marched 

ben, 
Like owre mony mae o' our great little men, 
That I leuch clean outright, for I cou'dna contain : 
He was sic a conceit — sic an ancient-like wean ! 

But 'mid a' his daffin sic kindness he shows, 

That he's dear to my heart as the dew to the rose ; 

And the unclouded hinny-beam aye in his ee 

Maks him every day dearer and dearer to me. 

Though Fortune be saucy, and dorty, and dour, 

And gloom through her fingers like hills through a shooer, 

When bodies hae gat a bit bit bairn o' their am, 

How he cheers up then* hearts ! — he's a wonderm' wean ! 

William Miller. 



443 



THE STORMING OF MAGDEBURGH. 

When the breach was open laid, 
Bold we mounted to the attack : 
Five times the assault was made ; 
Four times were we driven back ! 
But the fifth time up we strode, 
O'er the dying and the dead. 
Red the western sunbeams glowed, 
Sinking in a blaze of red ; 
Redder in the gory way 
Our deep plashing footsteps sank, 
As the cry of " Slay — Slay — Slay ! " 
Echoed fierce from rank to rank. 
And we slew, and slew, and slew : 
Slew them with unpitying sword. 
Negligently could we do 
The commanding of the Lord? 
Fled the coward, fought the brave, 
Wept the widow, wailed the child ; 
But there did not 'scape the glaive 
Man that frowned, nor babe that smiled. 
There were thrice ten thousand men 
When that morning's sun arose ; 
Lived not thrice three hundred when 
Sunk that sun at evening's close. 

444 



THE STORMING OF MAGDEBURGH. 

Then we spread the wasting flame, 
Fed to fury by the wind : 
Of the city — but the name, 
Nothing else, remained behind. 
But it burned not till it gave 
All it had to yield of spoil: 
Should not brave soldadoes have 
Some rewarding for their toil ? 
What the villain sons of trade 
Earned by years of toil and care, 
Prostrate at our bidding laid, 
In one moment won — was there. 
Hall and palace, dome and tower, 
Lowly cot and soaring spire, 
Sank in that victorious hour 
Which consigned the town to fire. 
Then throughout the burning town, 
'Mid the steaming heaps of dead, 
Cheered by sound of hostile moan, 
We the gorgeous banquet spread : 
Laughing loud and quaffing long, 
At our glorious labor o'er, 
To the skies our jocund song 
Told Magdeburgh was no more ! 

William Maginn. 



445 



THE MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA. 

O, sing unto my roundelay ! 

O, drop the briny tear with me ! 
Dance no more at holiday: 

Like a running river be ! 

My love is dead, 
Gone to his death-bed, 
All under the willow tree. 

Black his hair as the winter night, 
White his neck as the summer snow, 

Ruddy his face as the morning light ; 
Cold he lies in the grave below. 

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note ; 

Quick in dance as thought can be ; 
Deft his tabor, cudgel stote. 

O! he lies by the willow tree. 

Hark ! the raven flaps his wing, 

In the briered dell below ; 
Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing 

To the nightmares as they go. 
446 



THE MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA. 

See ! the white moon shines on high ! 

Whiter is my true-love's shroud — 
Whiter than the morning sky, 

Whiter than the evening cloud. 

Here, upon my true-love's grave, 

Shall the gairish flowers be laid ; 
Nor one holy saint to save 

All the sorrows of a maid. 

With my hands I'll bind the briers, 

Round his holy corse to gre ; 
Elf and fairy, light your fires ! 

Here my body still shall be. 

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn ! 

Drain my heart's blood all away ! 
Life and all its good I scorn : 

Dance by night, or feast by day ! 
My love is dead, 
Grone to his death-bed, 
All under the willow tree. 

Water-witches, crowned Avith reytes, 

Bear me to your deadly tide ! 
I die ! — I come ! My true-love waits ! 

Thus the damsel spake — and died. 

Thomas Chattekton. 



447 



I OIVE MY SOLDIER-BOY A BLADE. 

I give my soldier-boy a blade, 

In fair Damascus fashioned well ; 
Who first the glittering falchion swayed, 

Who first beneath its fury fell, 
I know not ; but I hope to know 

That for no mean or hireling trade, 
To guard no feeling base or low, 

I give my soldier-boy a blade. 

Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood 

In which its tempering work was done ; 
As calm, as clear, as cool of mood, 

Be thou whene'er it sees the sun : 
For country's claim, at Honor's call, 

For outraged friend, insulted maid, 
At Mercy's voice to bid it fall, 

I give my soldier-boy a blade. 

The eye which marked its peerless edge, 

The hand that weighed its balanced poise, 
Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge, 

Are gone, with all their flame and noise ; 
And still the gleaming sword remains : 

So, when in dust I low am laid, 
Remember, by these heart-felt strains, 

I gave my soldier-boy a blade. 

William Maginn. 
448 



THE MAHOGANY TREE. 

Christmas is here: 
Winds whistle shrill, 
Icy and chill. 
Little care we ; 
Little we fear 
Weather without, 
Sheltered about 
The Mahogany Tree. 

Once on the boughs 
Birds of rare plume 
Sang, in its bloom ; 
Night-birds are we. 
Here we carouse, 
Singing like them, 
Perched round the stem 
Of the jolly old tree. 

Here let us sport, 
Boys, as we sit, 
Laughter and wit 
Flashing so free. 



GGG 449 



THE MAHOGANY TREE. 

Life is but short ; 
When we are gone, 
Let them sing on, 
Round the old tree. 

Evenings we knew 
Happy as this ; 
Faces we miss, 
Pleasant to see. 
Kind hearts and true. 
Gentle and just, 
Peace to your dust ! 
We sing round the tree. 

Care, like a dun, 
Lurks at the gate : 
Let the dog wait ; 
Happy we'll be ! 
Drink, every one ; 
Pile up the coals ; 
Fill the red bowls, 
Round the old tree ! 

Drain we the cup : 
Friend, art afraid ? 
Spirits are laid 
In the Red Sea. 
Mantle it up ; 
Empty it yet ; 
Let us forget, 
Round the old tree. 
450 



THE GRACE OF SIMPLICITY 

Sorrows, begone ! 
Life and its ills. 
Duns and tlieir hills. 
Bid we to flee. 
Come with the dawn, 
Blue-devil sprite ! 
Leave us to-night, 
Round the old tree ! 

William Makepkack Tiiackkuay. 



THE GRACE OF SIMPLICITY. 

Still to be neat, still to be drest 

As you were going to a feast, 

Still to be powdered, still perfumed ! 

Lady, it is to be presumed, 

Though art's hid causes are not found, 

All is not sweet, all is not sound. 

Give me a look, give me a face, 

That makes simplicity a grace ; 

Robes looselv flowing, hair as free : 

Such sweet neglect more taketh me 

Than all the adulteries of art ; 

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 

Bkn Jonson. 



451 



JAMES MELVILLE'S CHILD. 

One time my soul was pierced as with a sword, 
Contending still with men untaught and wild, 

When He who to the prophet lent his gourd 
Gave me the solace of a pleasant child. 

A summer gift, my precious flower was given , 
A very summer fragrance was its life ; 

Its clear eyes soothed me as the blue of heaven, 
When home I turned, a weary man of strife. 

With unformed laughter, musically sweet, 

How soon the wakening babe would meet mv kiss : 

With outstretched arms, its care-wrought father greet ! 
0, in the desert, what a spring was this ! 

A few short months it blossomed near my heart : 
A few short months, else toilsome all, and sad ; 

But that home-solace nerved me for my part, 
And of the babe I was exceeding glad. 

Alas ! my pretty bud, scarce formed, was dying ; 

(The prophet's gourd, it withered in a night !) 
And He who gave me all, my heart's pulse trying, 

Took gently home the child of my delight. 

452 



JAMES MELVILLE'S CHILD. 

Not rudely culled, not suddenly it perished, 

But gradual faded from our love away: 
As if, still, secret dews, its life that cherished, 

Were drop by drop withheld, and day by day. 

My blessed Master saved me from repining, 

So tenderly He sued me for His own ; 
So beautiful He made my babe's declining, 

Its dying blessed me as its birth had done. 

And daily to my board at noon and even 
Our fading flower I bade his mother bring, 

That we might commune of our rest in Heaven, 
Gazing the while on death, without its sting. 

And of the ransom for that baby paid 

So very sweet at times our converse seemed, 

That the sure truth of grief a gladness made : 
Our little lamb by God's own Lamb redeemed ! 

There were two milk-white doves, my wife had nourished ; 

And I too loved, erewhile, at times to stand 
Marking how each the other fondly cherished, 

And fed them from my baby's dimpled hand ! 

So tame they grew that, to his cradle flying, 
Full oft they cooed him to his noontide rest : 

And to the murmurs of his sleep replying, 
Crept gently in, and nestled in his breast. 



453 



JAMES MELVILLE'S CHILD. 




'Twas a fair sight : the snow-pale infant sleeping, 
So fondly guardianed by those creatures mild, 

Watch o'er his closed eyes their bright eyes keeping 
Wondrous the love betwixt the birds and child ! 

Still as he sickened seemed the doves too dwining, 
Forsook their food, and loathed their pretty play ; 

And on the day he died, with sad note pining, 
One gentle bird would not be frayed away. 

His mother found it, when she rose, sad-hearted, 
At early dawn, with sense of nearing ill ; 

And when, at last, the little spirit parted, 
The dove died too, as if of its heart-chill. 



454 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

The other flew to meet my sad home-riding, 

As with a human sorrow in its coo ; 
To my dead child and its dead mate then guiding, 

Most pitifully plained — and parted too. 

'Twas my first hansel and propine to Heaven ; 

And as I laid my darling 'neath the sod, 
Precious His comforts — once an infant given, 

And offered with two turtle-doves to God ! 

Mhs. A. Stuart Mentkath. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usherest in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary ! dear, departed shade I 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love ? 



4nf> 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past, 
Thy image at our last embrace : 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wildwoods, thickening, green ; 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twined amorous round the raptured scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray, 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, 

And .fondly broods with miser care ; 
Time but th' impression deeper makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary ! dear, departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

Robert Burns 



4ob 



THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 

Otm bugles sang truce ; for the night-cloud liad lowered, 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; 

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered: 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, 

At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array 
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track : 

'Twas Autumn — and sunshine arose on the way 

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 

I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft 

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the winecup, and fondly I swore 

From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; 

My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, 

And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. 

HHH 45 7 



IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND. 

Stay, stay with us ! — rest ; thou art weary and worn ! 

And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; 
But sorrow returned with the dawnino- of morn. 

And the yoice in my dreaming ear melted away. 

Thomas Campbell. 



IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND. 

It is not beauty I demand : 

A crystal brow, the moon's despair ; 
Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand ; 

Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair. 

Tell me not of your starry eyes ; 

Your lips, that seem on roses fed ; 
Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies, 

Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed ; 

A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks, 
Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours ; 

A breath that softer music speaks 

Than summer winds a-wooing flowers. 

These are but gauds ; nay, what are lips ? 

Corals beneath the ocean-stream, 
Whose brink when your adventurer slips, 

Full oft he perisheth on them. 
458 



IT IS NOT BEAUTY 1 DEMAND. 

And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft, 
That wave hot youth to fields of blood ? 

Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, 
Do Greece or Ilium any good ? 

Eyes can with baleful ardor burn, 

Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed ; 

There's many a white hand holds an urn, 
With lovers' hearts to dust consumed. 

For crystal brows, there's naught within : 
They are but empty cells for pride ; 

He who the Siren's hair would win 
Is mostly strangled in the tide. 

Give me, instead of beauty's bust, 

A tender heart, a loyal mind, 
Which with temptation I would trust, 

Yet never linked with error find ; 

One in whose gentle bosom I 

Could pour my secret heart of woes, 

Like the care-burdened honey-fly, 

That hides his murmurs in the rose; 

My earthly comforter ! whose love 

So indefeasible might be, 
That when my spirit won above, 

Hers could not stay, for sympathy. 

Thomas Cahew 



459 



WILLIE WINKIE. 

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, 

Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown, 

Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, 

" Are the weans in their bed? — for it's now ten o'clock." 

Hey, Willie Winkie ! are ye comin' ben ? 

The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, 

The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep ; 

But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep. 

Onvthmg but sleep, ye rogue ! — glow'rin' like the moon, 
Rattlin' in an aim jug wi' an aim spoon, 
Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, era win' like a cock, 
Skirlin' like a kenna-what — wauknin' sleepin' folk ! 

Hey, Willie Winkie ! the wean's in a creel ! 
Wamblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, 
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravelin' a' her thrums : 
Hey, Willie Winkie! — See, there he comes! 

Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean, 
A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his lane, 
That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he'll close an ee ; 
But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me. 

William Miller. 
460 



THE CHESS-BOARD. 

My little love, do you remember, 

Ere we were grown so sadly wise, 
Those evenings in the bleak December, 
Curtained warm from the snowy weather, 
When you and I played chess together, 
Checkmated by each other's eyes ? 
Ah ! still I see your soft white hand 
Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight. 
Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand ; 
The double Castles guard the wings ; 
The Bishop, bent on distant things, 
Moves, sidling, through the fight. 

Our fingers touch ; our glances meet, 
And falter ; falls your golden hair 
Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet 
Is heaving. Down the field, your Queen 
Rides slow, her soldiery all between. 
And checks me unaware. 
Ah me ! the little battle's done : 
Disperst is all its chivalry. 
Full many a move, since then, have we 
'Mid life's perplexing checkers made, 
And many a game with Fortune played : 



46 



THE ROYAL GUEST. 

What is it we have won ? 

This, this at least — if this alone : 
That never, never, nevermore, 
As in those old still nights of yore, 

(Ere we were grown so sadly wise,) 

Can you and I shut out the skies, 
Shut out the world, and wintry weather, 

And eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, 
Play chess, as then we played together ! 

ROKEHT BlJLWER LYTTON. 



THE ROYAL GUEST. 

They tell me I am shrewd with other men ; 
With thee I'm slow, and difficult of speech. 
With others I may guide the car of talk ; 
Thou winofst it oft to realms beyond mv reach. 

If other guests should come, I'd deck my hair, 
And choose my newest garment from the shelf; 
When thou art bidden, I would clothe my heart 
With holiest purpose, as for God himself. 

For them I while the hours with tale or song, 
Or web of fancy, fringed with careless rhyme ; 
But how to find a fitting lay for thee, 
Who hast the harmonies of every time ? 



462 



THINK OF ME. 

O friend beloved ! I sit apart and dumb, 
Sometimes in sorrow, oft in joy divine : 
My lip will falter, but my prisoned heart 
Springs forth to measure its faint pulse with thine. 

Thou art to me most like a royal guest, 
Whose travels bring him to some lowlv root* 
Where simple rustics spread their festal fare 
And, blushing* own it is not good enough. 

Bethink thee then, whene'er thou com'st to me 
From high emprise and noble toil to rest, 
My thoughts are weak and trivial, matched with thine : 
But the poor mansion offers thee its best. 

Julia Ward Howe. 



THINK OF ME. 

Go where the water glideth gently ever, 

Glideth through meadows that the greenest be ; 
Go, listen to our own beloved river, 

And think of me. 

Wander in forests, where the small flower layeth 

Its fairy gem beneath the giant tree : 
List to the dim brook, pining as it playeth, 

And think of me. 

463 



COME, LET US KTSSE AND PARTE! 

And when the sky is silver-pale at even, 

And the wind grieveth in the lonely tree, 
Walk out beneath the solitary heaven, 

And think of me. 

And when the moon riseth as she were dreaming, 

And treadeth with white feet the lulled sea, 
Go, silent as a star, beneath her beaming, 

And think of me. 

John Hamilton Reynolds. 



COME, LET US KISSE AND PARTE! 

Since there 's no helpe — come, let us kiss and parte ! 

Nay, I have done — you get no more of me ; 
And I am glad — vea, glad w [\\i a ][ mv hearte — 

That thus so cleanly I myselfe can free. 
Shake hands forever! — cancel all our vows; 

And when we meet at any time againe, 
Be it not seene in either of our brows 

That we one jot of former love retaine. 

Now — at the last gaspe of Love's latest breath — 

When, his pulse failing, Passion speechlesse lies — 
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, 

And Innocence is closing up his eyes — 
Now ! if thou would'st — when all have given him over — 
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover ! 

Michael Drayton. 
464 



QUA CURSUM VENTUS. 

As ships becalmed at eve, that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side. 

Two towers of sail, at dawn of day 

Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; 




When fell the night, up-sprung the breeze. 

And all the darkling hours they plied ; 
Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 

By each was cleaving, side bv side : 
46.=> 



QUA CURSUM VENTUS. 

E'en so — bat why the tale reveal 

Of those whom, year by year unchanged, 

Brief absence joined anew, to feel, 

Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? 

At dead of night their sails were filled, 
And onward each rejoicing steered ; 

Ah ! neither blame, for neither willed 
Or wist what first with dawn appeared. 

To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, 
Brave barks! — in light, in darkness too! 

Through winds and tides one compass guides 
To that and your own selves be true. 

But O blithe breeze ! and O great seas ! 

Though ne'er that earliest parting past, 
On your wide plain they join again ; 

Together lead them home at last. 



o 



One port, methought, alike they sought — 

One purpose hold where'er they fare ; 
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas, 

At last, at last, unite them there ! 

Arthur Hugh Clough. 



466 



MEETING AND PARTING. 

The gray sea, and the long black land ; 
And the yellow half-moon, large and low ; 
And the startled little waves, that leap 
In fiery ringlets from their sleep, 
As I gain the cove with pushing prow, 
And quench its speed in the slushy sand. 

Then a mile of warm, sea-scented beach ; 

Three fields to cross, till a farm appears ; 

A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 

And blue spirt of a lighted match ; 

And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, 

Than the two hearts, beating each to each ! 



Round the cape, of a sudden, came the sea, 
And the sun looked over the mountain's rim — 
And straight was a path of gold for him, 
And the need of a world of men for me ! 

Robert Browning. 



4G7 



FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR. 

Farewell ! but whenever you welcome the hour 
That awakens the niVht-song; of mirth in vour bower, 
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, 
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. 
His griefs may return — not a hope may remain 
Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain ; 
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw 
Its enchantment around him while lingering with you. 

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up 

To the highest top-sparkle each heart and each cup, 

Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, 

My soul, happy friends ! shall be with you that night — 

Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, 

And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles : 

Too blest if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, 

Some kind voice had murmured, " I wish he were here ! " 

Let Fate do her worst ! there are relics of joy, 
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy — 
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, 
And bring back the features that joy used to wear. 
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled ! 
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled : 
You may break, you may ruin, the vase if you will, 
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 

Thomas Moore 
k;s 



AS I LAY A-THINKING. 

As I lay a-thinking, a-thinking, a-thinking. 

Merry sang the Bird as she sat upon the spray : 
There came a noble Knight 
With his hauberk shining bright, 
And his gallant heart was lio-ht — 
Free and gay ; 

And as I lay a-thinking, he rode upon his way. 

As I lay a-thinking, a-thinking, a-thinking, 

Sadly sang the Bird as she sat upon the tree : 
There seemed a crimson plain, 
Where a gallant Knight lay slain. 
And a steed with broken rein 
Ran free : 
As I lay a-thinking — most pitiful to see ! 

As 1 lay a-thinking, a-thinking, a-thinking, 

Merry sang the Bird as she sat upon the bough : 
A lovely Maid came by, 
And a gentle Youth was nigh, 
And he breathed many a sigh, 
And a vow ; 
As 1 lay a-thinking — her heart was gladsome now 

As 1 lay a-thinking, a-thinking, a-thinking, 

Sadly sang the Bird as she sat upon the thorn: 
No more a Youth was there, 
But a Maiden rent her hair, 

4 (J!) 



AS I LAY A-THINKING. 

And cried in sad despair, 

" That I was born ! " 
As I lay a-thinking, she perished forlorn. 

As I lay a-thinking, a-thinking, a-thinking, 

Sweetly sang the Bird as she sat upon the brier : 
There came a lovely Child, 
And his face was meek and mild, 
Yet joyously he smiled 
On his sire : 
As I lay a-thinking — a cherub might admire. 

But as I lay a-thinking, a-thinking, a-thinking, 

And sadly sang the Bird as it perched upon a bier, 
That joyous smile was gone, 
And the face was white and wan, 
As the down upon the swan 
Doth appear : 
As I lay a-thinking, oh ! bitter flowed the tear ! 

As I lay a-thinking, the golden sun was sinking — 

Oh ! merry sang that Bird as it glittered on her breast 
With a thousand gorgeous dyes, 
While, soaring to the skies, 
'Mid the stars she seemed to rise, 
As to her nest. 
As I lay a-thinking, her meaning was exprest : 
" Follow, follow me away ! 
It boots not to delay : " 
('T was so she seemed to say) 
" Here is rest ! " 

Richard Harris Barham. 
470 



ADIEU. 

Let time and chance combine, combine, 
Let time and chance combine ; 

The fairest love from heaven above, 
That love of yours was mine, 
My Dear — 
That love of yours was mine. 

The past is fled and gone, and gone, 

The past is fled and gone ; 
If naught but pain to me remain, 

I '11 fare in memory on, 

My Dear — 

I '11 fare in memory on. 

The saddest tears must fall, must fall, 

The saddest tears must fall ; 
In weal or woe, in this world below, 

I love you ever and all, 

My Dear — 

I love you ever and all. 

A long road, full of pain, of pain, 

A long road full of pain : 
One soul, one heart, sworn ne'er to part 

We ne'er can meet again, 

My Dear — 

We ne'er can meet again. 

471 



WHEN YOUR BEAUTY APPEARS. 

Hard fate will not allow, allow, 

Hard fate will not allow ; 
We blessed were as the angels are — 
Adieu forever now, 

My Dear ! — 
Adieu forever now ! 

Thomas Caklylk 



WHEN YOUR BEAUTY APPEARS. 

When your beauty appears, 

In its graces and airs, 
All bright as an angel new-dropt from the skies, 

At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears — 

So strangely you dazzle my eyes ! 

But when without art 

Your kind thoughts you impart, 
When your love runs in blushes through every vein, 

When it darts from your eyes, when it pants at your heart 

Then I know that you 're woman again. 

" There 's a passion and pride 
In our sex," she replied : 
k4 And thus (might I gratify both) I would do — 
Still an angel appear to each lover beside, 
But still be a woman for you." 

Thomas Pabnell 



4 72 



SHE IS NOT FAIR. 

She is not fair to outward view, 

As many maidens be : 
Her loveliness I never knew 

Until she smiled on me ; 
O then, I saw her eye was bright — 
A well of love, a spring of light ! 

But now her looks are coy and cold : 

To mine they ne'er reply ; 
And yet I cease not to behold 

The love-light in her eye. 
Her very frowns are better far 
Than smiles of other maidens are. 

Hartley Coi.eriihj'k. 



THE TIGER. 

Tiger ! tiger ! burning bright, 
In the forest of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetr 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burned the ardor of thine eyes ? 

J 473 



THE SEA-FIGHT. 

On what wings dare he aspire ? 
What the hand dare seize the fire ? 

And what shoulder, and what art, 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart ? 
And when thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand forged thy dread feet ? 

What the hammer ? what the chain ? 
In what furnace was thy brain ? 
What the anvil ? What dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 

When the stars threw down their spears, 
And watered heaven with their tears, 
Did God smile his work to see ? 
Did He who made the lamb make thee ? 

Tiger ! tiger ! burning bright, 
In the forest of the night, 
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ? 

William Blake. 



THE SEA-FIGHT. 

Ah, yes — the fight! Well, messmates, well! 

I served aboard that Ninety-eight ; 
Yet what I saw I loathe to tell. 

To-night, be sure a crushing weight 
474 



THE SEA-FIGHT. 

Upon my sleeping breast, a hell 

Of dread, will sit. At any rate, 
Though land-locked here, a watch I '11 keep. 
Grog cheers us still. Who cares for sleep? 

That Ninety-eight I sailed aboard. 

Along the Frenchman's coast we new; 
Right aft the rising tempest roared ; 

A nojble first-rate hove in view ; 
And soon high in the gale there soared 

Her streamed-out bunting — red, white, blue! 
We cleared for fight, and landward bore, 
To get between the chase and shore. 

Masters, I cannot spin a yarn 

Twice laid with words of silken stuff. 

A fact 's a fact ; and ye may larn 

The rights o' this, though Avild and rough 

My words may loom. 'T is your consarn, 
Not mine, to understand. Enough : — 

We neared the Frenchman where he lay, 

And as w r e neared, he blazed away. 

We tacked, hove to ; we filled, we wore : 

Did all that seamanship could do 
To rake him aft, or by the fore — 

Now rounded off, and now broached to ; 
And now our starboard broadside bore, 

And showers of iron through and through 
His vast hull hissed ; our larboard then 
Swept from his threefold decks his men. 
475 



THE SEA-FIGHT 

As we, like a huge serpent, coiled, 

And wound about, through that wild sea, 

The Frenchman each manoeuvre foiled — 
'Vantage to neither there could be. 

Whilst thus the waves between us boiled, 
We both resolved right manfully 

To fight it side by side : — Began 

Then the fierce strife of man to man. 

Gun bellows forth to gun, and Pain 
Rings out her wild, delirious scream ! 

Redoubling thunders shake the main. 
Loud crashing, falls the shot-rent beam. 

The timbers with the broadsides strain. 
The slippery decks send up a steam 

From hot and living blood ; and high 

And shrill is heard the death-pang cry. 

The shredded limb, the splintered bone, 

Th' unstiffened corpse, now block the way. 

Who now can hear the dying groan ? 
The trumpet of the Judgment Day, 

Had it pealed forth its mighty tone, 

We should not then have heard — to say 

Would be rank sin ; but this I tell, 

That could alone our madness quell. 

Upon the forecastle I fought 

As captain of the for'ad gun. 
A scattering shot the carriage caught ! 

What mother then had known her son 

4 70 



THE SEA-FIGHT. 



Of those who stood around? — Distraught, 
And smeared with gore, about they run 
Then fall, and writhe, and howling die ! 
But one escaped. That one was I ! 




Night darkened round, and the storm pealed. 

To windward of us lay the foe. 
As he to leeward over keeled, 

He could not fight his guns below ; 
So just was going to strike — when reeled 

Our vessel, as if some vast blow 
477 



THE SEA-FIGHT. 

From an Almighty hand had rent 
The huge ship from her element. 

Then howled the thunder. Tumult then 
Had stunned herself to silence. Round 

Were scattered lightning-blasted men ! 

Our mainmast went. All stifled, drowned, 

Arose the Frenchman's shout. Again 
The bolt burst on us — and we found 

Our masts all gone, our decks all riven : 

— Man's war mocks faintly that of Heaven ! 

Just then — Nay, messmates, laugh not now ■ 
As I, amazed, one minute stood 

Amidst that rout — I know not how — 
'T was silence all — the raving flood, 

The guns that pealed from stern to bow, 
And God's own thunder — nothing could 

I then of all that tumult hear, 

Nor see aught of that scene of fear. 

My aged mother at her door 

Sat mildly o'er her humming wheel ; 

The cottage, orchard, and the moor — 
I saw them plainly all. I '11 kneel, 

And swear I saw them ! Oh, they wore 
A look all peace ! Could I but feel 

Again that bliss that then I felt, 

That made my heart, like childhood's, melt! 

The blessed tear was on my cheek — 
She smiled with that old smile I know : 

4 78 



THE SEA-FIGHT 

"Turn to me, mother! turn and speak ! " 
Was on my quivering lips — when lo 

All vanished, and a dark, red streak 
Glared wild and vivid from the foe, 

That flashed upon the blood-stained water; 

For fore and aft the flames had caught her. 

She struck, and hailed us. On us fast, 
All burning, helplessly, she came — 

Near, and more near ; and not a mast 
Had we to help us from that flame. 

'T was then the bravest stood aghast ; 
'T was then the wicked, on the name 

(With danger and with guilt appalled), 

Of God, too long neglected, called. 

The eddying flames with ravening tongue 
Now on our ship's dark bulwarks dash — 

We almost touched ; when ocean runs; 
Down to its depths with one loud crash ! 

In heaven's top vault one instant hung 
The vast, intense, and blinding flash ! 

Then all was darkness, stillness, dread — 

The wave moaned o'er the valiant dead. 

She 's gone ! blown up ! that gallant foe ! 

And though she left us in a plight, 
We floated still ; long were, I know T , 

And hard, the labors of that night 
To clear the wreck. At length in tow 

A frigate took us, when 't was light ; 
479 



TO PERILLA. 

And soon an English port we gained — 
A hulk all battered and blood-stained. 

So many slain — so many drowned ! 

I like not of that hVht to tell. 
Come, let the cheerful grog go round ! 

Messmates, I 've done. A spell, ho ! spell f 
Though a pressed man, I '11 still be found 

To do a seaman's duty well. 
I wish our brother landsmen knew 
One half we jolly tars go through. 

Anonymous. 



TO PERILLA. 

Ah, my Perilla ! dost thou grieve to see 
Me, day by day, to steal away from thee ? 
Age calls me hence, and my gray hairs bid come, 
And haste away to mine eternal home. 
'T will not be long, Perilla, after this 
That I must give thee the supremest kiss. 
Dead when I am, first cast in salt; and bring 
Part of the cream from that religious spring, 
With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet. 
That done, then wind me in that very sheet 
Which wrapt thy smooth limbs when thou didst implore 
The gods' protection, but the night before. 
Follow me, weeping, to my turf; and there 
Let fall a primrose, and with it a tear. 

480 








iAe^~-fh^ 



r 'yr'S> 



4. £^y 












-^s^Ta ' /&«&. 



ON THE DEATH OF THE POET DRAKE. 

Then lastly, let some weekly strewings be 
Devoted to the memory of me : 
Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep 
Still, in the cool and silent shades of sleep. 

Robert Herkick. 



ON THE DEATH OF THE POET DRAKE. 

Green be the turf above thee, 
Friend of my better days ! 

None knew thee but to love thee, 
Nor named thee but to praise. 

Tears fell when thou wert dying, 
From eyes unused to weep ; 

And long where thou art lying 

Will tears the cold turf steep. 

When hearts whose truth was proven, 
Like thine, are laid in earth, 

There should a wreath be woven 
To tell the world their worth ; 

And I, who woke each morrow 
To clasp thy hand in mine, 

Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 

Whose weal and woe were thine — 

It should be mine to braid it 
Around thy faded brow ; 

FKK 481 



THE BEGGAR'S COURAGE. 

But I Ve in vain essayed it, 
And feel I cannot now. 

While memory bids me weep thee, 
Nor thoughts nor words are free : 

The grief is fixed too deeply 

That mourns a man like thee. 

Fitz-Greene Halleck. 



THE BEGGAR'S COURAGE. 

To heaven approached a Sufi saint, 
From groping in the darkness late, 

And, tapping timidly and faint, 
Besought admission at God's gate. 

Said God, " Who seeks to enter here ? " 
" 'T is I, dear Friend ! " the saint replied, 

And trembled much with hope and fear. 
" If it be thou, without abide." 

Sadly to earth the poor saint turned, 
To bear the scourging of life's rods ; 

But aye his heart within him yearned 
To mix and lose its love in God's. 

He roamed alone through weary years, 
By cruel men still scorned and mocked, 

Until from faith's pure fires and tears 
Again he rose, and modest knocked. 
482 



THE HAPPY LIFE. 

Asked God, " Who now is at the door ? " 

" It is Thyself, beloved Lord ! " 
Answered the saint — in doubt no more, 
But clasped and rapt in his reward. 

Dschellalkddin Rumi, (Persian.) 
Translation of William Rou^seville Alger. 



THE HAPPY LIFE. 

How happy is he born and taught 
That serveth not another's will, 

Whose armor is his honest thought, 
And simple truth his utmost skill ! 

Whose passions not his masters are, 

Whose soul is still prepared for death — 

Untied unto the worldly care 

Of public fame or private breath ; 

Who envies none that chance doth raise, 
Or vice ; who never understood 

How deepest wounds are given by praise ; 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; 

Who hath his life from humors freed ; 

Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 

Nor ruin make accusers great ; 
483 



SONNET: ON HIS BLINDNESS. 

Who God doth late and early pray 
More of His grace than gifts to lend ; 

And entertains the harmless day 

With a well-chosen book or friend : 

This man is freed from servile bands, 

Of hope to rise, or fear to fall — 
Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 

And, having nothing, yet hath all. 

Sir Henry Wotton. 



SONNET: ON HIS BLINDNESS. 

When I consider how my light is spent, 

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide ; 
And that one talent which is death to hide 
Lodged w T ith me useless, though my soul more bent 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest he, returning, chide — 
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?'' 
I fondly ask ; but Patience, to prevent 

That murmur, soon replies : " God doth not need 
Either man's work, or his own gift ; who best 
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best ; his state 

Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed, 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
They also serve who only stand and wait." 

John Milton. 
484 



DIRGE. 

If thou wilt ease thine heart 
Of love, and all its smart — 
Then sleep, dear, sleep ! 
And not a sorrow 

Hang any tear on your eyelashes. 

Lie still and deep, 
Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes 
The rim o' the sun to-morrow, 
In eastern sky. 

But wilt thou cure thine heart 
Of love, and all its smart — 

Then die, dear, die ! 
'T is deeper, sweeter, 
Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming 

With folded eye ; 
And then alone, amid the beaming 
Of Love's stars, thou 'It meet her 
In eastern sky. 

Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 



MY RIVER. 

River ! my River, in the yonng sunshine ! 

Oh, clasp afresh in thine embrace 
This longing, burning frame of mine, 

And kiss my breast, and kiss my face ! 

4.S5 



MY RIVER. 

So, there ! — Ha, ha ! — already in thine arms, 

I feel thy love, I shout, I shiver ! 

But thou out-laughest loud a flouting song, proud River ; 
And now again my bosom warms. 

The droplets of the golden sun-light glide 

Over and off me, sparkling, as I swim 
Hither and thither down thy mellow tide, 

Or loll amid its crypts with outstretched limb. 
I fling abroad mine arms, and lo ! 

Thy wanton waves curl slyly round me ; 

But ere their loose chains have well bound me, 
Again they burst away, and let me go. 

sun-loved River ! wherefore dost thou hum, 

Hum, hum alway, thy strange, deep, mystic song 
Unto the rocks and strands? — for they are dumb, 

And answer nothing as thou flowest along. 
Why singest so, all hours of night and day ? 

Ah, River ! my best River ! thou, I guess, art seeking 

Some land where souls have still the gift of speaking 
With Nature, in her own old, wondrous way. 

Lo ! highest heaven looms far below me here ; 

I see it in thy waters, as they roll : 
So beautiful, so blue, so clear — 

'T would seem, O River mine, to be thy very soul ! 
Oh ! could I hence dive down to such a sky, 

Might I but bathe my spirit in that glory, 

So far out-shining all in ancient fairy story, 

1 would, indeed, have joy to die. 



LOVE NOT ME. 

What, on cold earth, is deep as thou ? Is aught ? 

Love is as deep, Love only is as deep. 
Love lavisheth all ; yet loseth, lacketh, naught. 

Like thee, too, Love can neither pause nor sleep. 
Roll on, thou loving River, then ! Lift up 

Thy waves — those eyes, bright with a riotous laughing! 

Thou raakest me immortal. I am quaffing 
The wine of rapture from no earthly cup. 

At last thou bearest me, with soothing tone, 

Back to thy bank of rosy flowers : 
Thanks then, and fare thee well ! — enjoy thy bliss alone ; 

And through the year's melodious hours 
Echo forever, from thy bosom broad. 

All glorious tales that sun and moon be telling ; 

And woo down to their soundless fountain-dwelling 
The holy stars of God ! 

Eduard Moerike (German). 
Translation of James Clarence Maxgan. ' 



LOVE NOT ME. 

Love not me for comely grace, 
For my pleasing eye or face, 
Nor for any outward part ; 
No, nor for my constant heart : 
For those may fail, or turn to 
So thou and I shall sever. 
487 



PHILIP, MY KING. 

Keep therefore a true woman's eye, 

And love me still, but know not why : 

So hast thou the same reason still 

To doat upon me ever. 

Anonymous. 




PHILIP, MY KING. 



Look at me with thy large brown eyes, 
Philip, my King! 



PHILIP, MY KING. 

For round thee the purple shadow lies 
Of babyhood's regal dignities. 
Lay on my neck thy tiny hand, 

With Love's invisible sceptre laden : 
I am thine Esther, to command 

Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden, 
Philip, my King! 

0, the day when thou ooest a-wooing, 

Philip, my King ! 
When those beautiful lips are suing, 
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing, 
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there 

Sittest all glorified! — rule kindly, 
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair ; 

For we that lo\e, ah ! we love so blindly, 
Philip, my King ! 

I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, 

Philip, my King ! 
Ay ! there lies the spirit, all sleeping now, 
That may rise like a giant, and make men bow 
As to one God-throned amid his peers. 

My Saul ! than thy brethren higher and fairer 
Let me behold thee in coming years. 
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, 
Philip, my King — 

A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, 

Philip, my King ! 
Thou too must tread, as we tread, a way 

LLL 48!) 



THE GIFTS OF GOD. 

Thorny, and bitter, and cold, and gray ; 
Rebels within thee, and foes without, 

Will snatch at thy crown. But go on, glorious : 
Martyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout, 

As thou sit'st at the feet of God victorious, 
-Philip, the King!" 

Dinah Maria Muloch. 



THE GIFTS OF GOD. 

When God at first made man, 

Having a glass of blessings standing by, 

"Let us," said He, "pour on him all we can; 
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, 
Contract into a span." 

So strength first made a way ; 

Then beauty flowed ; then wisdom, honor, pleasure. 
When almost all was out, God made a stay, 

Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure, 
Rest in the bottom lay. 

"For if I should," said He, 

" Bestow this jewel also on my creature, 
He would adore my gifts instead of me, 

And rest in Nature — not the God of Nature : 
So both should losers be. 



490 



THE HYMN OF DAMASCENUS. 

" Yet let him keep the rest, 

But keep them with repining restlessness; 
Let him be rich and weary — that, at least, 

If goodness lead him not, yet weariness 
May toss him, to my breast." 

GrEORGE HERBERT. 



THE HYMN OF DAMASCENUS. 

From my lips in their defilement, 
From my heart in its beguilement, 
From my tongue which speaks not fair, 
From my soul stained everywhere — 
O my Jesus, take my prayer ! 

Spurn me not, for all it says : 
Not for words, and not for ways, 
Not for shamelessness indued ! 
Make me brave to speak my mood. 

my Jesus, as I would ! 

Or teach me, which I rather seek, 
What to do and what to speak. 

1 have sinned more than she 

Who, learning where to meet with Thee, 
And bringing myrrh the highest priced, 
Anointed bravely, from her knee, 
Thy blessed feet accordingly — 
My (rod, my Lord, my Christ ! 

4 Ml 



)F DAMASCENUS. 

epart ! 

To that suppliant from her heart, 
Scorn me not, O Word, that art 
The gentlest one of all words said ! 
But give Thy feet to me instead, 
That tenderly I may them kiss, 
And clasp them close ; and never miss, 
With over-dropping tears, as free 
And precious as that myrrh could be, 
T' anoint them bravely from my knee ! 

Wash me with thy tears ! draw nigh me, 

That their salt may purify me ! 

Thou remit my sins, who knowest 

All the sinning, to the lowest — 

Knowest all my wounds, and seest 

All the stripes Thyself decreest. 

Yea, but knowest all my faith, 

Seest all my force to death, 

Hearest all my wailings low 

That mine evil should be so ! 

Nothing hidden but appears 

In Thy knowledge, () Divine, 

O Creator, Saviour mine ! — 

Not a drop of falling tears, 

Not a breath of inward moan, 

Not a heart-beat — which is gone ! 

St. Joannes Damascenus. (Greek.) 



Translation of Elizabeth Barrett Browjslng 



>92 



A THANKSGIVING. 

Lord, for the erring thought 
Not unto evil wrought ; 
Lord, for the wicked will 
Betrayed and baffled still ; 
For the heart from itself kept : 
Our Thanksgiving accept ! 

For ignorant hopes that were 
Broken to our blind prayer ; 
For pain, death, sorrow — sent 
Unto our chastisement ; 
For all loss of seeming good : 
Quicken our gratitude ! 

William Dean Howklls. 



EXCELSIOR. 

The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device — 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath : 



493 



EXCELSIOR. 

And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue — 
Excelsior ! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 
And from his lips escaped a groan — 
Excelsior ! 

" Try not the pass ! " the old man said : 
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead ; 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! " 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior ! 

" O stay ! " the maiden said, " and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast ! " 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

" Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche ! " 
This was the peasant's last good-night ; 
A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of St. Bernard 



494 



THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDAS. 

Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried, through the startled air, 
Excelsior ! 

A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
Half-buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device — 
Excelsior ! 

There, in the twilight cold and gray, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star — 



Henry Wads worth Loxgfellow 



THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDAS. 

Where the remote Bermudas ride 
In th' ocean's bosom unespied, 
From a small boat, that rowed along, 
The listening winds received this song : 

What should we do but sing His praise 
That led us through the watery maze 
Unto an isle so long unknown. 
And yet far kinder than our own ? 
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks 
That lift the deep upon their backs, 
He lands us on a grassy stage, 
4 or, 



THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDAS. 

Sate from the storms, and prelate's rage. 
He gave us this eternal spring 
Which here enamels every thing, 
And sends the fowls to us in care, 
On daily visits through the air. 
He hangs in shades the orange bright, 
Like golden lamps in a green night, 
And does in the pomegranates close 
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. 
He makes the figs our mouths to meet, 
And throws the melons at our feet ; 
But apples — plants of such a price 
No tree could ever bear them twice ! 
With cedars, chosen by His hand 
From Lebanon, He stores the land : 
And makes the hollow seas, that roar, 
Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 
He cast (of which we rather boast) 
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast ; 
And in these rocks for us did frame 
A temple, where to sound His name. 
O ! let our voice His praise exalt 
Till it arrive at heaven's vault : 
Which then, perhaps rebounding, may 
Echo beyond the Mexique bay. 

Thus sang they, in the English boat, 
A holv and a cheerful note ; 
And all the wav, to guide their chime. 
With falling oars they kept the time. 

Andrew Marvell 
4D0 



SABINA. 



See, see! She wakes — Sabina wakes! 

And now the sun begins to rise : 
Less glorious is the morn that breaks 

From his bright beams than her fair eyes. 



With light united, Day they give ; 

But different fates ere night fulfill: 
How many by his warmth will live ! 

How many will her coldness kill ! 

William Congreve. 



THE CALL. 



Awake thee, my lady-love, 

Wake thee and rise ! 
The sun through the bower peeps 

Into thine eyes ! 

Behold how the early lark 

Springs from the corn ! 
Hark, hark ! how the flower-bird 

Winds her wee horn ! 



The swallow's glad shriek is heard 



All through the air ; 
mmm 497 



THE RIVER-GOD TO AMORET. 

The stock-dove is murmuring, 
Loud as she dare. 

Apollo's winged bugleman 

Cannot contain, 
But peals his loud trumpet-call 

Once and again ! 

Then wake thee, my lady-love — 

Bird of my bower ! 
The sweetest and sleepiest 

Bird at this hour ! 



Gkokgk Darlby. 



THE RIVER-GOD TO AMORET. 

I am this fountain's god. Below, 
My waters to a river grow ; 
And 'twixt two banks, with osiers set, 
That only prosper in the wet, 
Through the meadows do they glide, 
Wheeling still on every side — 
Sometimes winding round about, 
To find the evenest channel out. 
And if thou wilt go with me, 
Leaving mortal company, 
In the cool streams shalt thou lie, 
Free from harm as well as I. 
I will give thee, for thy food, 
No fish that useth in the mud ; 
498 



THE RIVER-GOD TO AMORET 

But trout and pike, that love to swim 

Where the gravel, from the brim, 

Through the pure streams may be seeu. 

Orient pearls, lit for a queen, 

Will I give, thy love to win, 

And a shell to keep them in, 

Not a fish in all my brook 

That shall disobey thy look, 

But, when thou wilt, come sliding by, 

And from thy white hand take a fly. 

And to make thee understand 

How I can my waves command, 

They shall bubble whilst I sing, 

Sweeter than the silver string : 

THE SONG. 

Do not fear to put thy feet 
Naked in the river, sweet. 
Think not leech, or newt, or toad, 
Will bite thy foot when thou hast trod ; 
Nor let the water rising high, 
As thou wad'st in, make thee cry 
And sob ; but ever live with me, 
And not a wave shall trouble thee ! 

John Fletcher 



499 



TO CYNTHIA. 

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, 

Now the sun is laid to sleep, 
Seated in thy silver chair, 

State in wonted manner keep : 
Hesperus entreats thy light, 
Goddess excellently bright ! 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 

Dare itself to interpose ; 
Cynthia's shining orb was made 

Heaven to clear when day did close : 
Bless us, then, with wished sight, 
Goddess excellently bright ! 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart, 

And thy crystal-shining quiver ; 
Give unto thy flying hart 

Space to breathe, how short soever : 
Thou that makest a day of night, 
Goddess excellently bright ! 

Ben Jons on. 



500 



TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. 

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, 
Catching your heart up at the feel of June ! 
Sole voice that 's heard amidst the lazy noon, 
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass ! 
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class 
With those who think the candles come too soon, 
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune 
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass ! 

O sweet and tiny cousins ! that belong, 

One to the fields, the other to the hearth ! 

Both have your sunshine ; both, though small, are strong 

At your clear hearts ; and both seem given to earth 

To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song — 

In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth ! 

Leigh Hunt. 



PASSING THE ICEBERGS. 

A fearless shape of brave device, 

Our vessel drives through mist and rain. 

Between the floating fleets of ice — 
The navies of the northern main. 



501 



PASSING THE ICEBERGS. 

These Arctic ventures, blindly hurled, 
The proofs of Nature's olden force, 

Like fragments of a crystal world 

Long shattered from its skyey course — 

These are the buccaneers that fright 
The middle sea with dream of wrecks, 

And freeze the south winds in their flight, 
And chain the Gulf-stream to their decks. 

At every dragon prow and helm 

There stands some Viking, as of yore : 

Grim heroes from the boreal realm 
Where Odin rules the spectral shore. 

And oft beneath the sun or moon 
Their swift and eager falchions glow, 

While, like a storm-vexed wind, the rune 
Comes chafing through some beard of snow 

And when the far North flashes up, 
With fires of mingled red and gold, 

They know that many a blazing cup 
Is brimming to the absent bold. 

Up signal there ! and let us hail 
Yon looming phantom as we pass ! 

Note all her fashion, hull and sail, 
Within the compass of your glass. 



502 



PASSING THE ICEBERGS. 

See at her mast the steadfast glow 
Of that one star of Odin's throne : 

Up with our flag ! and let us show 
The constellation on our own. 



1 
I 




And speak her well ; for she might say, 
If from her heart the words could thaw 

Great news from some far frozen bay. 
Or the remotest Esquimaux : 

Might tell of channels yet untold, 

That sweep the pole from sea to sea; 
503 



PASSING THE ICEBERGS. 

Of lands which God designs to hold 
A mighty people yet to be ; 

Of wonders which alone prevail 

Where day and darkness dimly meet ; 

Of all which spreads the Arctic sail ; 
Of Franklin, and his venturous fleet : 

How, haply, at some glorious goal 
His anchor holds, his sails are furled ; 

That Fame has named him on her scroll 
" Columbus of the Polar world ! " 

Or how his ploughing barks wedge on 

Through splintering fields, with battered shares, 

Lit only by that spectral dawn, 

The mask that mocking darkness wears ; 

Or how, o'er embers black and few, 

The last of shivered masts and spars, 
He sits amid his frozen crew, 

In council with the norland stars. 

No answer — but the sullen flow 

Of ocean, heaving long and vast ; 
An argosy of ice and snow, 

The voiceless North swings proudly past. 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 



504 



A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE. 

This ae nighte, this ae nighte, 

Everie nighte and alle, 
Fire, and selte, and candle-lighte ; 

And Christe receive thy saule! 

When thou from hence away art past, 

Everie nighte and alle, 
To Whinny-muir thou comest at last ; 

And Christe receive thy saule! 

If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, 

Everie nighte and alle, 
Sit thee down and put them on ; 

And Ohriste receive thy saule! 

If hosen and shoon thou gavest nane, 

Everie 7iighte and alle, 
The whinnes shall pricke thee to the bare bane ; 

And Christe receive thy saule! 

From Whinny-muir when thou mayst passe, 

Everie nighte and alle, 
To Brigg o' Dread thou comest at last ; 

And Christe receive thy saule! 

From Brigg o' Dread when thou mayst passe, 
Everie nighte and alle, 

NNN 505 



BUGLE SONG. 

To Purgatory fire thou comest at last ; 

And Christe receive thy saule! 

If ever thou gavest meate or drinke, 

Everie nighte and alle, 
The fire shall never make thee shrinke ; 

And Christe receive thy saule! 

If meate or drinke thou gavest nane, 

Everie nighte and alle, 
The fire will burne thee to the bare bane ; 

And Christe receive thy saule! 

This ae nighte, this ae nighte, 

Everie nighte and alle, 
Fire, and selte, and candle-lighte ; 

And Christe receive thy saule! 

Anonymous. 



BUGLE SONG. 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story; 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow ! set the wild echoes flying : 
Blow, bugle ! answer, echoes — dying, dying, dying ! 

O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
506 



ECHO AND SILENCE. 

O sweet and far, from cliff and scar, 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
Blow ! let ns hear the purple glens replying : 
Blow, bugle ! answer, echoes — dying, dying, dying ! 

O love, they die in yon rich sky; 

They faint on hill or field or river ! 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow ! set the wild echoes flying ; 
And answer, echoes, answer! — dying, dying, dying! 

Alfred Tenxysox. 



ECHO AND SILENCE. 

In eddying course when leaves began to fly, 

And Autumn •in her lap the store to strew, 

As mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo, 

Through glens untrod and woods that frowned on high, 

Two sleeping nymphs, with wonder mute, I spy: 

And lo ! she's gone — in robe of dark green line, 
'T was Echo from her sister Silence flew ; 

For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky. 

In shade affrighted Silence melts away. 

Not so her sister — hark! for onward still, 

With far-heard step, she takes her listening way, 
Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill : 

Ah! mark the merry maid, in mockful play, 

With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill ! 

Sir Egerton Brydges. 

50 7 



INVOCATION OF SILENCE. 

Still-born Silence ! thou that art 

Flood-gate of the deeper heart ! 

Offspring of a heavenly kind ; 

Frost o' the mouth, and thaw o' the mind ; 

Secrecy's confidant, and he 

Who makes religion mystery ; 

Admiration's speaking'st tongue ! 

Leave, thy desert shades among, 

Reverend hermits' hallowed cells, 

Where retired Devotion dwells : 

With thy enthusiasms come, 

Seize our tongues, and strike us dumb ! 

Richard Flecknoe. 



WISHES, 

TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS. 

Whoe'er she be, 

That not impossible she, 

That shall command my heart and me 

Where'er she lie, 

Locked up from mortal eye 

In shady leaves of destiny — 

508 



WISHES. 

Till that ripe birth 

Of studied fate stand forth, 

And teach her fair steps to our earth — 

Till that divine 

Idea take a shrine 

Of crystal flesh, through which to shine — 

Meet you her, my Wishes, 
Bespeak her to my blisses, 
And be ye called my absent kisses. 

I wish her beauty, 

That owes not all its duty 

To gaudy tire or glistering shoe-tie ; 

Something more than 
Taftata or tissue can, 
Or rampant feather, or rich fan — 

More than the spoil 

Of shop, or silk- worm's toil, 

Or a bought blush, or a set . smile : 

A face, that \s best 

By its own beauty dressed. 

And can alone command the rest — 

A face made up 

Out of no other shop 

Than what Nature's white hand sets ope ; 

509 



WISHES. 

A cheek, where youth 

And blood, with pen of truth, 

Write what the reader sweetly ru'th — 

A cheek where grows 
More than a morning rose, 
Which to no box his being owes ; 

Lips, where all day 

A lover's kiss may play, 

Yet carry nothing thence away ; 

Looks, that oppress 

Their richest tires, but dress 

And clothe their simplest nakedness ; 

Eyes, that displace 

The neighbor diamond, and outface 

That sunshine bv their own sweet orace : 

Tresses, that wear 

Jewels but to declare 

How much themselves more precious are 

Whose native ray 

Can tame the wanton day 

Of gems that in their bright shades play 

Each ruby there, 

Or pearl that dare appear, 

Be its own blush, be its own tear : 

510 



WISHES. 

A well-tamed heart, 

For whose more noble smart 

Love may be long choosing a dart , 

Eyes, that bestow 

Full quivers on Love's bow, 

Yet pay less arrows than they owe ; 

Smiles, that can warm 

The blood, yet teach a charm 

That chastity shall take no harm ; 

Blushes, that bin 

The burnish of no sin, 

Nor flames of aught too hot within ; 

Joys, that confess 

Virtue their mistress, 

And have no other head to dress ; 

Fears, fond and slight, 

As the coy bride's, when night 

First does the longing lover right ; 



Days, that need borrow 
No part of their good morrow 
From a fore-spent night of sorrow 
511 



WISHES. 

Days that, in spite 

Of darkness, by the light 

Of a clear mind, are day all night; 

Nights, sweet as they 

Made short by lovers' play, 

Yet long by the absence of the day ; 

Life, that dares send 

A challenge to his end, 

And when it comes say, Welcome, friend ! 

Sydneian showers 

Of sweet discourse, whose powers 

Can crown old Winter's head with flowers ; 

Soft silken hours, 

Open suns, shady bowers : 

'Bove all — nothing within that lowers , 

Whate'er delight 

Can make day's forehead bright, 

Or give down to the wings of night. 

In her whole frame 

Have Nature all the name, 

Art and ornament the shame. 

Her flattery, 

Picture and poesy ; 

Her counsel her own virtue be. 

512 



wishes. 

I wish her store 

Of worth may leave her poor 

Of wishes ; and I wish — no more. 

Now, if Time knows 

That her, whose radiant brows 

Weave them a garland of my vows — 

Her whose jnst bays 

My future hopes can raise, 

A trophy to her present praise — 

Her that dares be 

What these lines wish to see : 

I seek no further — it is she. 

'T is she — and here, 
Lo, I unclothe and clear 
My Wish's cloudy character ! 

May she enjoy it 

Whose merit dare apply it, 

But modesty dares still deny it. 

Such worth as this is 
Shall fix my flying wishes, 
And determine them to kisses. 

Let her full glory, 

My fancies, fly before ye ; 

Be ye my fictions but — her story ! 

Richard Ckashaw 
ooo 5 1 3 



ARAB LOVE. 

My faint spirit was sitting in the light 

Of thy looks, my love ; 
It panted for thee, like the hind at noon 

For the brooks, my love. 
Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight, 

Bore thee far from me ; 
My heart — for my weak feet were weary soon — 

Did companion thee. 

Ah ! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, 

Or the death they bear, 
The heart which tender thought clothes, like a dove, 

With the wings of care ; 
In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, 

Shall mine cling to thee ; 

Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, 

It may bring to thee. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



514 



THE MIGHT OF ONE FAIR FACE. 

The might of one fair face sublimes my love, 

For it hath weaned my heart from low desires ; 

Nor death I need, nor purgatorial fires : 

Thy beauty, antepast of joys above, 

Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve ; 

For O, how good, how beautiful, must be 

The God that made so good a thing as thee, 

So fair an image of the heavenly Dove ! 

Forgive me if I cannot turn away 

From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven, 

For they are guiding stars, benignly given 

To tempt my footsteps to the upward way ; 

And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight, 

I live and love in God's peculiar light. 

Michael Angrlo. (Italian.) 
Translation of Hartley Coleridge. 



515 




TIBBIE. 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the clay 
Ye wadna been sae shy ! 

For laik o' gear ye lightly me ; 
But, trowth, I earena by. 

Yestreen I met you on the moor : 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure 
Ye geek at me because I 'in poor ; 
But fient a hair care I. 
51G 



TIBBIE. 

I doubtna, lass, but ye may think, 
Because ye hae the name o' clink, 
That ye can please me at a wink, 
Whene'er ye like to try ; 

But sorrow tak him that 's sae mean, 
Although his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean 

That looks sae proud and high. 

Although a lad were ne'er sae smart, 
If that he want the yellow dirt 
Ye '11 cast your head anither airt, 
And answer him fu' dry ; 

But if he hae the name o' gear 
Ye '11 fasten to him like a brier, 
Though hardly he, for sense or lear, 
Be better than the kye. 

But, Tibbie lass, tak my advice : 
Your daddy's gear maks you sae nice ; 
The deil a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I wadna gie her in her sark 
For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark — 
Ye needna look sae high ! 

517 



WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN. 



Tibbie, Ihae seen the 

Ye wadna been sae shy ! 

For laik 6* gear ye lightly me ; 
But, trowth, I carena by. 



Robert Burns. 



WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN. 

When the Sultan Shah-Zaman 
Goes to the city Ispahan, 
Even before he gets so far 

As the place where the clustered palm-trees are, 
At the last of the thirty palace gates, 
The pet of the harem, Rose-in-Bloom, 
Orders a feast in his favorite room : 
Glittering squares of colored ice, 
Sweetened with syrup, tinctured with spice ; 
Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates ; 
Syrian apples, Oth man ee quinces, 
Limes, and citrons, and apricots ; 
And wines that are known to Eastern princes. 
And Nubian slaves, with smoking pots 
Of spiced meats and costliest fish, 
And all that the curious palate could wish, 
Pass in and out of the cedarn doors. 
Scattered over mosaic floors 
Are anemones, myrtles, and violets ; 
And a musical fountain throws its jets 
Of a hundred colors into the air. 
The dusk Sultana loosens her hair, 
518 



WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN. 

And stains with the henna-plant the tips 
Of her pearly nails, and bites her lips 
Till they bloom again ; but alas, that rose 
Not for the Sultan buds and blows ! 
Not for the Sultan Shah-Zaman 
When he goes to the city Ispahan. 

Then, at a wave of her sunny hand, 
The dancing-girls of Samarcand 
Float in like mists from Fairy-land ! 
And to the low voluptuous swoons 
Of music rise and fail the moons 
Of their full, brown bosoms. Orient blood 
Runs in their veins, shines in their eyes ; 
And there in this Eastern paradise, 
Filled with the fumes of sandal-wood, 
And Khoten musk, and aloes and myrrh, 
Sits Rose-in-Bloom on a silk divan, 
Sipping the wines of Astrakhan ; 
And her Arab lover sits with her. 
That *s ivhen the Sultan Shah-Zaman 
Goes to the city Ispahan. 

Now, when I see an extra light 
Flaming, flickering on the night, 
From my neighbor's casement opposite, 
I know as well as I know to pray, 
I know as well as a tongue can say, 
That the innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman 
Has gone to the city Ispahan. 

Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 
519 



THE ANGEL. 

I dreamed a dream — what can it mean ? 
And that I was a maiden queen, 
Guarded bj an Angel mild : 
Witless woe, was ne'er beguiled ! 

And I wept both night and day, 
And he wiped my tears away ; 
And I wept both day and night, 
And hid from him my heart's delight. 

So he took his wings and fled. 
Then the morn blushed rosy red ; 
I dried my tears, and armed my fears 
With ten thousand shields and spears. 

Soon my Angel came again : 
I was armed — he came in vain ; 
For the time of youth was fled, 
And gray hairs were on my head. 



William Blake. 



520 



MY LADY SINGING. 

She whom this heart must ever hold most clear 
(This heart in happy bondage held so long) 
Began to sing. At first a gentle fear 
Rosied her countenance — for she is young, 
And he who loves her most of all was near ; 
But when at last her voice grew full and strong, 
O, from their ambush sweet, how rich and clear 
Bubbled the notes abroad — a rapturous throng ! 
Her little hands were sometimes flung apart, 
And sometimes palm to palm together prest, 
Whilst wave-like blushes, rising from her breast, 
Kept time with that aerial melody, 
As music to the sight! — I, standing nigh, 
Received the falling fountain in my heart. 

Aubrky De Ykre. 



THE SWORD OF CASTRUCCIO CASTRUCANI. 

" Questa e per me." 

When Victor Emmanuel, the king, 
Went down to his Lucca that day, 

The people, each vaunting the thing 
As he gave it, gave all things away 
In a burst of fierce gratitude, say — 

As they tore out their hearts for the king : 
ppp 521 



THE &YVORD OF CASTRUCCIO CASTRUCAN1. 

Gave the green forest-walk on the wall, 
With the Appenine blue through the trees 

Gave palaces, churches, and all 

The great pictures which barn out of these. 
But the eyes of the king seemed to freeze, 

As he glanced upon ceiling and wall. 

" Good !" said the king as he past. 

Was he cold to the arts ? — or else coy 
To possession ? — or crossed at the last, 

Whispered some, by the vote in Savoy? 

Shout! — Love him enough for his joy ! 
" Good ! " said the king as he past. 

He, travelling the whole day through flowers 
And protesting amenities, found 

At Pistoia, betwixt the two showers 

Of red roses, " the Orphans " (renowned 
As the heirs of Puccini), who wound 

With a sword through the crowd and the flowers. 

" 'T is the sword of Castruccio, O king ! 

In old strife of intestinal hate 
Very famous. Accept what we bring — 

We, who cannot be sons by our fate, 

Rendered citizens by thee of late, 
And endowed with a country and king. 

" Read : — Puccini has willed that this sword 

(Which once made, in an ignorant feud, 
Many orphans) remain in our ward 
522 



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*Qll. ""hand"? as in two later editions.- — J.WP. 



SONG OF ARIEL. 

Till some patriot its pure civic blood 
Wipe away in the foe's and make good, 
In delivering the land by the sword." 

Then the king exclaimed, " This is for me ! 
And he dashed out his sword on the hilt, 

While his blue eye shot fire openly, 
And his heart overboiled till it spilt 
A hot prayer : " God ! the rest as Thou wilt ! 

But grant me this — this is for me/" 

O Victor Emmanuel the kino; ! 

The sword be for thee, and the deed ! 
And nought for the alien, next Spring, 

Nought for Hapsburg and Bourbon agreed ; 

But for us, a great Italy freed, 
With a hero to head us — our Kino; ! 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



SONG OF ARTEL. 

Full fathom five thy father lies ; 

Of his bones are coral made ; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes ; 

Nothing of him that doth fade 
But doth suffer a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : 
Hark! now I hear them — ding, dong, bell! 

S){ AKSPEARK 

523 



THE PARTING LOVERS. 

" She says, The cock crows — hark ! 
He says, No ! still 't is dark. 

" She says, The dawn grows bright ; 
He says, O no, my Light ! 

" She says, Stand up ! and say, 
Gets not the heaven gray ? 

" He says, The morning star 
Climbs the horizon's bar. 

"She says, Then quick depart : 
Alas ! you now must start. 

" But give the cock a blow 

Who did begin our woe ! " 

Anonymous, (Chinese.) 
Translation of William Rotlnseville Alger. 



524 



THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. 

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, 
Hangs a thrush- that sings loud — it has sung for three years : 
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard 
In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 

'T is a note of enchantment! what ails her? She sees 
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 
Bright volumes of vapor through Lothbury glide, 
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 

Green pastures she views, in the midst of the dale 
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail ; 
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, 
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 

She looks — and her heart is in heaven ! But they fade : 
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade. 
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 
And the colors have all passed away from her eyes. 

William Wordsworth. 



525 




THE ANGLER'S WISH. 

I in these flowery meads would be ; 
These crystal streams should solace me, 
To whose harmonious, bubbling noise 
I with my angle would rejoice — 
Sit here and see the turtle-dove 
Court his chaste mate to acts of love. 



Or on that bank, feel the west wind 
Breathe health and plenty ; please my mind 



526 



FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE. 

To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, 
And then washed off by April showers ; 
Here hear my Kenna sing a song, 
There see a blackbird feed her young, 

Or a leverock build her nest ; 

Here give my weary spirits rest, 

And raise my low-pitched thoughts above 

Earth, or what poor mortals love : 

Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise 

Of princes' courts, I would rejoice. 

Or, with my Bryan and a book, 

Loiter long days near Shawford brook. 

There sit by him, and eat my meat ; 

There see the sun both rise and set ; 

There bid good morning to next day ; 

There meditate my time away ; 

And angle on ; and beg to have 

A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 

Isaak Walton. 



FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE. 

The night is late, the house is still , 
The angels of the hour fulfil 
Their tender ministries, and move 
From couch to couch, in cares of love. 
They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife, 
The happiest smile of Charlie's life, 



FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE. 

And lay on Baby's lips a kiss, 

Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss ; 

And as they pass, they seem to make 

A strange, dim hymn, " For Charlie's sake ! " 

My listening heart takes up the strain, 
And gives it to the night again, 
Fitted with words of lowly praise, 
And patience learned of mournful days, 
And memories of the dead child's ways. 

His will be done, His will be done ! 
Who gave, and took away, my son — 
In the far land to shine and sing; 
Before the Beautiful, the King, 
Who every day doth Christmas make, 
All starr'd and bell'd for Charlie's sake. 

For Charlie's sake I will arise ; 
I will anoint me where he lies, 
And change my raiment, and go in 
To the Lord's house, leaving my sin 
Without, and seat me at His board, 
Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord. 
For wherefore should I fast and weep, 
And sullen moods of mourning keep ? 
I cannot bring him back, nor he, 
For any calling, come to me : 
The bond the angel Death did sign, 
God sealed — for Charlie's sake and mine. 



-28 



FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE. 

I 'm very poor — -his slender stone 

Marks all the narrow field I own ; 

Yet, patient husbandman, I till 

With faith and prayers that precious hill, 

Sow it with penitential pains, 

And, hopeful, wait the latter rains : 

Content if, after all, the spot 

Yield barely one forget-me-not ; 

Whether or figs or thistles make 

My crop — content, for Charlie's sake. 

I have no houses, builded well — 

Only that little lonesome cell, 

Where never romping playmates come, 

Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb : 

An April burst of girls and boys, 

Their rainbowed cloud of griefs and joys 

Bom with their songs, gone with their toys ; 

Nor ever is its stillness stirred 

By purr of cat, or chirp of bird, 

Or mother's twilight legend, told 

Of Horner's pie or Tiddler's gold, 

Or Fairy, hobbling to the door, 

Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor, 

To bless the good child's gracious eyes, 

The good child's wistful charities, 

And crippled Changeling's hunch to make 

Dance on his crutch, for Good Child's sake. 

How is it with the lad? — 'T is well; 
Nor would I any miracle 
529 



MARIAN'S SONG. 

Might stir my sleeper's tranquil trance, 
Or plague his painless countenance ; 
I would not any Seer might place 
His staff on my immortal's face, 
Or lip to lip, and eye to eye, 
Charm back his pale mortality : 
No, Shunammite ! I would not break 
God's quiet. Let. them weep who wake. 

For Charlie's sake my lot is blest : 
No comfort like his mother's breast, 
No praise like hers ; no charm exprest 
In fairest forms hath half her zest. 
For Charlie's sake this bird 's carest 
That Death left lonely in the nest. 
For Charlie's sake my heart is drest, 
As for its birthday, in its best. 
For Charlie's sake we leave the rest 
To Him who gave, and who did take, 
And saved us twice — for Charlie's sake. 

John Williamson Palmer. 



MARIAN'S SONG. 

Deeper than the hail can smite, 
Deeper than the frost can bite, 
Deep asleep through clay and night — 
Our delight ! 
530 



MATIN HYMN. 

Now thy sleep no pang can break, 
No to-morrow bid thee wake — 
Not our sobs, who sit and ache 
For thy sake. 

Is it dark or light below? 
O, but is it cold like snow ? 
Dost thou feel the green things grow, 
Fast or slow ? 

Is it warm or cold beneath ? 
O, but is it cold like death ? 
Cold like death without a breath — 
Cold like death. 

Christina G. Rossetti. 



MATIN HYMN. 

I cannot ope mine eyes 

But Thou art ready there, to catch 

My morning soul and sacrifice ; 

Then we must needs for that day make a match. 

My God, what is a heart ? 

Silver, or gold, or precious stone ? 

Or star, or rainbow ? or a part 

Of all these things, or all of them in one ? 

My God, what is a heart ? 
That thou shouldst it so eye and woo, 
531 



THE GENTLE SOUL. 

Pouring iipcn it all thine art, 

As if that Thou hadst nothing else to do? 

Indeed, man's whole estate 

Amounts (and richly) to serve Thee. 

He did not heaven and earth create ; 

Yet studies them, not Him by whom they be. 

Teach me Thy love to know, 
That this new light which now I see 
May both the work and Workman show : 
Then by a sunbeam I will climb to Thee. 

George Herbert. 

THE GENTLE SOUL. 

Ye gentle souls ! ye love-devoted fair ! 

Who, passing by, to Pity's voice incline, 
O stay awhile and hear me ! then declare 

If there was ever grief that equals mine. 

There was a woman to whose sacred breast 

Faith had retired, where Honor fixed his throne ; 

Pride, though upheld by Virtue, she represt : 
Ye gentle souls ! that woman was my own. 

Beauty was more than beauty in her face ; 

Grace was in all she did, in all she said — 
In sorrow as in pleasure there was grace : 

Ye gentle souls ! that gentle soul is fled. 

Francesco Redi. (Italian.) 
Translation of Walter Savage Landor. 

532 



TO KEEP A TRUE LENT. 

Is this a fast : to keep 
The larder lean, 
And clean 
From fat of veals and sheep ? 

Is it to quit the dish 

Of flesh, yet still 
To fill 
The platter high with fish ? 

Is it to fast an hour? 

Or ragged to go ? 
Or show 
A downcast look, and sour ? 

No ! 't is a fast to dole 

Thy sheaf of wheat, 
And meat, 
Unto the hungry soul. 

It is to fast from strife, 
From old debate 
And hate — 
To circumcise thy life. 

533 



THE EMIGRANTS. 

To show a heart grief-rent : 
To starve thy sin, 
Not bin — 
And that 's to keep thy lent." 

Robert Herrick. 



THE EMIGRANTS. 

I cannot take my eyes away 

From you, ye busy, bustling band ! 

Your little all to see you lay, 

Each, in the waiting seaman's hand. 

Ye men, who from your necks set down 
The heavy basket on the earth, 

Of bread from German corn, baked brown 
By German wives on German hearth ! 

And you, with braided queues so neat, 
Black-Forest maidens, slim and brown, 

How careful on the sloop's green seat 
You set your pails and pitchers down ! 

Ah ! oft have home's cool, shady tanks 
These pails and pitchers filled for you ! 

On far Missouri's silent banks 

Sh;ill these the scenes of home renew : 

The stone-rimmed fount in village street, 
That, as ye stooped, betrayed your smiles ; 
534 



THE EMIGRANTS. 

The hearth, and its familiar seat ; 
The mantel and the pictured tiles. 

Soon, in the far and wooded West, 

Shall log-house walls therewith be graced ; 

Soon many a tired, tawny guest 

Shall sweet refreshment from them taste. 




From them shall drink the Cherokee, 
Faint with the hot and dusty chase • 
535 



TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 

No more from German vintage ye 

Shall bear them home, in leaf-crowned grace. 

O say, why seek ye other lands ? 

The Neckar's vale hath wine and corn ; 
Full of dark firs the Schwarzwald stands ; 

In Spessart rings the Alp-herd's horn. 

Ah ! in strange forests how ye '11 yearn 
For the green mountains of your home — 

To Deutschland's yellow wheat-fields turn, 
In spirit o'er her vine-hills roam ! 

How w T ill the form of days grown pale 

In golden dreams float softly by ! 
Like some unearthly, mystic tale, 

'T will stand before fond memory's eye. 

The boatman calls ! — Go hence in peace ! 

God bless ye, man and wife and sire ! 
Bless all your fields with rich increase, 
And crown each true heart's pure desire ! 

Ferdinand Freiligrath. (German.) 
Translation of Charles T. Brooks. 



TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 



O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray 

Warblest at eve, when all the w T oods are still ! 
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, 

While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. 



536 



THE DWINA. 

Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, 

First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, 
Portend success in love. 0, if Jove's will 

Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, 
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate 

Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh ; 
As thou from year to year hast sung too late 

For my relief, yet hadst no reason why. 

Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, 
Both them I serve, and of their train am I. 

Johx Milton. 



THE DWINA. 

Stony-browed Dwina, thy face is as flint ! 
Horsemen and wao-ons cross, scoring no dint : 
Cossacks patrol thee, and leave thee as hard ; 
Camp-fires but blacken and spot thee, like pard ; 

For the dead, silent river lies rigid and still 

Down on thy sedgy banks picket the troops, 
Scaring the night- wolves with carols and whoops ; 
Crackle their fagots of drift-wood and hay. 
And the steam of their pots fills the nostrils of day ; 
But the dead, silent river lies rigid and still 

Sledges pass sliding from hamlet to town : 
Lovers and comrades — and none doth he drown ! 

RRR 537 



THE DWINA. 

Harness-bells tinkling in musical glee, 

For to none comes the sorrow that came unto me ; 

And the dead, silent river lies rigid and still. 

I go to the Dwina ; I stand on his wave, 
Where Ivan, my dead, has no grass on his grave : 
Stronger than granite that coffins a Czar, 
Solid as pavement, and polished as spar — 

Where the dead, silent river lies rigid and still. 

Stronger than granite ? Nay, falser than sand ! 
Fatal the clasp of thy slippery hand ; 
Cruel as vulture's the clutch of thy claws ; 
Who shall redeem from the merciless jaws 

Of the dead, silent river, so rigid and still ? 

Crisp lay the new-fallen snow on thy breast, 
Trembled the white moon through haze in the west ; 
Far in the thicket the wolf-cub was howling, 
Down by the sheep-cotes the wolf-dam was prowling ; 
And the dead, silent river lay rigid and still : 

When Ivan, my lover, my husband, my lord, 
Lightly and cheerily stept on the sward — 
Light with his hopes of the morrow and me, 
That the reeds on the margin leaned after to see ; 

But the dead, silent river lay rigid and still. 

O'er the fresh snow-fall, the winter-long frost, 
O'er the broad Dwina the forester crost : 
538 



THE DWINA 

Snares at his girdle, and gun at his side, 
Game-bag weighed heavy with gifts for his bride : 

And the dead, silent river lay rigid and still — 

Rigid and silent, and crouching for prey, 
Crouching for him who went singing his way. 
Oxen were stabled, and sheep were in fold ; 
But Ivan was struggling in torrents ice-cold, 

'Neath the dead, silent river, so rigid and still. 

Home he came never. We searched by the ford : 
Small was the fissure that swallowed my lord ; 
Glassy ice-sheetings had frozen above — 
A crystalline cover to seal up my love. 

In the dead, silent river, so rigid and still. 

Still by the Dwina my home-torches burn ; 
Faithful I watch for my bridegroom's return. 
When the moon sparkles on hoar-frost and tree, 
I see my love crossing the Dwina to me, 

O'er the dead, silent river, so rigid and still. 

Always approaching, he never arrives. 
Howls the northeast wind, the dusty snow drives. 
Snapping like touchwood, I hear the ice crack — 
And my lover is drowned in the water-hole black, 

'Neath the dead, silent river, so rigid and still. 
Countess Ort.off. (Russian.) 
Translation of Mks. Ogilvik. 



589 



SONG OF FAIRIES. 

We the fairies, blithe and antic, 

Of dimensions not gigantic, 

Though the moonshine mostly keep us, 

Oft in orchards frisk and peep us. 

Stolen sweets are always sweeter ; 
Stolen kisses much completer ; 
Stolen looks are nice in chapels : 
Stolen, stolen be your apples. 

When to bed the world are bobbing, 
Then 's the time for orchard-robbing ; 
Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling 



Translation of Leigh Hunt. 



Thomas Randolph. (Latin.) 



SIR PETER. 

In his last bin Sir Peter lies, 

Who knew not what it was to frown ; 
Death took him mellow, by surprise, 

And in his cellar stopped him down. 
Through all our land we could not boast 

A knight more gay, more prompt than he 
To rise and fill a bumper toast, 

And pass it round with " Three times Three ! " 

540 



ARMSTRONG'S GOODNIGHT. 

None better knew the feast to sway, 

Or keep mirth's boat in better trim ; 
For Nature had but little clay 

Like that of which she moulded him. 
The meanest guest that graced his board 

Was there the freest of the free, 
His bumper toast when Peter poured 

And passed it round with " Three times Three ! 

He kept at true good humor's mark 

The social flow of pleasure's tide ; 
He never made a brow look dark, 

Nor caused a tear but when he died. 
No sorrow round his tomb should dwell : 

More pleased his gay old ghost would be, 
Fur funeral song and passing bell, 

To hear no sound but " Three times Three ! " 

Thomas Love Peacock. 



ARMSTRONG'S GOOD-NIGHT. 

This night is my departing night, 

For here nae langer must I stay ; 

There 's neither friend nor foe o' mine 
But wishes me away. 

What I have done thro' lack o* wit 

I never, never can recall. 
1 hope ye 're a' my friends as yet : 

Good-night ! And joy be wi' you all ! 

Anonymous. 

541 



THE LEGEND OF THE STEPMOTHER. 

I, 

As I lay asleep, as I lay asleep, 

Under the grass as I lay so deep, 

As I lay asleep in my cotton sirk 

Under the shade of Our Lady's kirk, 

I wakened up in the dead of night, 

I wakened up in my death-sirk white, 

And I heard a cry from far away, 

And I knew the voice of my daughter May : 

" Mother, mother, come hither to me ! 

Mother, mother, come hither and see ! 

Mother, mother, mother dear, 

Another mother is sitting here. 

My body is bruised, and in pain I cry ; 

On straw in the dark afraid I lie ; 

I thirst and hunger for drink and meat ; 

And, mother, mother, to sleep were sweet ! " 

I heard the cry, though my grave was deep, 

And awoke from sleep, awoke from sleep. 

ii. 
I awoke from sleep, I awoke from sleep : 
Up I rose from my grave so deep ! 
The earth was black, but overhead 
The stars were yellow, the moon was red ; 
And I walked along, all white and thin, 
And lifted the latch and entered in, 

542 



THE LEGEND OF THE STEPMOTHER. 

And reached the chamber as dark as night, 

And though it was dark my face was white : 

" Mother, mother, I look on thee ! 

Mother, mother, you frighten me ! 

For your cheeks are thin and your hair is gray ! 

But I smiled, and kissed her fears away ; 

I smoothed her hair and I sang a song, 

And on my knee I rocked her long : 

u O mother, mother, sing low to me ; 

I am sleepy now, and I cannot see ! " 

I kissed her, but I could not weep ; 

And she went to sleep, she went to sleep. 

in. 

As we lay asleep, as we lay asleep, 

My May and I, in our grave so deep, 

As we lay asleep in the midnight mirk, 

Under the shade of Our Lady's kirk, 

I weakened up in the dead of night, 

Though May my daughter lay warm and white ; 

And I heard the cry of a little one, 

And I knew 't was the voice of Hugh my son : 

" Mother, mother, come hither to me ! 

Mother, mother, come hither and see ! 

Mother, mother, mother dear, 

Another mother is sitting here. 

My body is bruised and my heart is sad ; 

But I speak my mind, and call them bad. 

I thirst and hunger night and day, 

And w T ere I strong I would fly away ! " 



M.3 



THE LEGEND OF THE STEPMOTHER. 

I heard the cry, though my grave was deep, 
And awoke from sleep, and awoke from sleep. 

IV. 

I awoke from sleep, I awoke from sleep : 

Up I rose from my grave so deep ! 

The earth was black, but overhead 

The stars were yellow, the moon was red ; 

And I walked along, all white and thin, 

And lifted the latch and entered in : 

" Mother, mother, and art thou here ? 

I know your face, and I feel no fear. 

Raise me, mother, and kiss my cheek, 

For O, I am weary and sore and weak ! " 

I smoothed his hair with a mother's joy, 

And he laughed aloud, my own brave boy ! 

I raised and held him on my breast, 

Sang him a song, and bade him rest : 

" Mother, mother, sing low to me — 

I am sleepy now, and I cannot see ! " 

I kissed him, and I could not weep, 

As he went to sleep, as he went to sleep. 

v. 

As I lay asleep, as I lay asleep, 

With my girl and boy in my grave so deep, 

As I lay asleep I awoke in fear — 

Awoke, but awoke not my children dear, 

And heard a cry so low and weak 

From a tiny voice that could not speak ; 



544 



THE LEGEND OF THE STEPMOTHER. 

I heard the cry of a little one, 

My bairn that could neither talk nor run — 

My little, little one, uncaressed, 

Starving for lack of the milk of the breast ! 

And I rose from sleep and entered in, 

And found my little one pinched and thin, 

And crooned a song and hushed its moan, 

And put its lips to my white breast-bone ; 

And the red, red moon that lit the place 

Went white to look at the little face ; 

And I kissed and kissed, and I could not weep, 

As it went to sleep, as it went to sleep. 

VI. 

As it lay asleep, as it lay asleep, 
I set it down in the darkness deep, 
Smoothed its limbs and laid it out, 
And drew the curtains around about ; 
Then into the dark, dark room I hied 
Where he lay awake at the woman's side ; 
And though the chamber was black as night 
He saw my face, for it was so white. 
I gazed in his eyes, and he shrieked in pain, 
And I knew he would never sleep again ; 
And back to my grave went silently, 
And soon my baby was brought to me. 
My son and daughter beside me rest, 
My little baby is on my breast ; 
Our bed is warm and our grave is deep — 
But he cannot sleep, he cannot sleep ! 

Robert Buchanan. 
545 



^\ 




THE KNIGHT'S TOMB 



Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn ? 

Where may the grave of that good man be ? 
By the side of a spring on the breast of Helvellyn, 

Under the twigs of a young birch-tree. 
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, 
And rustled its leaves in tiie fall of the year, 
And whistled and roared in the winter alone. 
Is gone, and the birch in its stead has grown. 

540 



KULNASATZ, MY REINDEER. 

The knight's bones are dust, 

And his good sword rust ; 

His soul is with the saints, I trust. 

Samuel Taylor Colkiudgk. 



KULNASATZ, MY REINDEER. 

Kulnasatz, ray reindeer, 
We have a long journey to go ; 
The moors are vast, 
And we must haste, 
Our strength, I fear, 
Will fail if we are slow : 
And so 
Our songs will, too. 

lvalue, the watery moor, 
Is pleasant unto me, 
Thouoh lono; it be, 
Since it doth to my mistress lead 
Whom I adore ; 
The Kilwa moor 
I ne'er again will tread. 

Thoughts filled mv mind, 
Whilst I through Kaige passed 
Swift as the wind, 

547 



THE ROSEBUD. 

And my desire 
Winged with impatient fire : 
My reindeer, let us haste ! 

So shall we quickly end our pleasing pain — 

Behold my mistress there, 
With decent motion walking o'er the plain ! 
Kulnasatz, my reindeer, 
Look yonder ! where 

She washes in the lake ! 
See ! while she swims, 
The water from her purer limbs 
New clearness take ! 

Anonymous. (Icelandic.) 



Anonymous Translation. 



THE ROSEBUD. 

When Nature tries her finest touch, 

Weaving her vernal wreath, 
Mark ye how close she veils her round, 
Not to be traced by sight or sound, 
Nor soiled by ruder breath ? 

Who ever saw the earliest rose 

First open her sweet breast ? 
Or, when the summer sun goes down, 
The first soft star in evening's crown 
Light up her gleaming crest ? 

548 



THE ROSEBUD. 

Fondly we seek the dawning bloom 
On features wan and fair : 

The gazing eye no change can trace ; 

But look away a little space — 

Then turn — and lo ! 't is there. 

But there 's a sweeter flower than e'er 

Blushed on the rosy spray, 
A brighter star, a richer bloom, 
Than e'er did western heaven illume 
At close of summer day. 

'T is love, the last best gift of Heaven — 

Love, gentle, holy, pure ! 
But, tenderer than a dove's soft eye, 
The searching sun, the open sky, 
She never could endure. 

Even human love will shrink from sight, 

Here in the coarse rude earth : 
How then should rash intruding: fflance 
Break in upon her sacred trance 

Who boasts a heavenly birth ? 

So still and secret is her growth, 

Ever the truest heart, 
Where deepest strikes her kindly root, 
For hope or joy, for flower or fruit, 

Least knows its happy part. 



549 



THE ROSEBUD. 

God only, and good angels, look 

Behind the blissful screen — 
As when, triumphant o'er His woes 
The Son of God by moonlight rose. 
By all but heaven unseen : 



As when the holy Maid beheld 

Her risen Son and Lord ; 
Thought hath not' colors half so fair 
That she to paint that hour may dare, 

In silence best adored. 

The gracious Dove, that brought from heaven 

The earnest of our bliss, 
Of many a chosen witness telling, 
On many a happy vision dwelling, 

Sings not a note of this. 

So, truest image of the Christ, 

Old Israel's long-lost son, 
What time, with sweet forgiving cheer, 
He called his conscious brethren near, 

Would weep with them alone : 

lie could not trust his melting soul 

But in his Maker's sight ; 
Then why should gentle hearts and true 
Bare to the rude world's withering view 

Their treasure of delight. 



550 



UP-HILL. 

No ! let tlie dainty rose awhile 

Her bashful fragrance hide ; 
Rend not her silken veil too soon, 
But leave her in her own soft noon 
To flourish and abide. 

John Kkbi.k 



UP-HILL 



Does the road wind up-hill all the way ? 

Yes. to the very end. 
Will the day's journey take the whole long day ? 

From morn to night, my friend. 

But is there for the night a resting-place ? 

A roof for wheu the slow dark hours begin ? 
May not the darkness hide it from my face ? 

You cannot miss that inn. 

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night ? 

Those who have gone before. 
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight ? 

They will not keep you standing at that door. 

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak ? 

Of labor you shall find the sum. 
Will there be beds for me and all who seek ? 
Yea, beds for all who come. 

Christina G. Rossktti. 
551 



THE SENTKY. 

My heart, my heart is weary; 

Yet merrily beams the May, 
And I lean against the linden, 

High up on the terrace gray. 

The town-moat far below me 

Runs silent and sad and blue ; 

A boy in a boat floats o'er it, 

Still fishing and whistling too. 

And a beautiful varied picture 

Spreads out beyond the flood : 

Fair houses, and gardens, and people, 

And cattle, and meadow, and wood. 

Young maidens are bleaching the linen : 
They laugh as they go and come ; 

And the mill-wheel is dripping, with diamonds 
I list to its far-away hum. 

And high on yon old gray castle 

A sentry-box peeps o'er, 
While a young red-coated soldier 

Is pacing beside the door. 
552 



THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. 

He handles his shining musket, 

Which gleams in the sunlight red; 
He halts, he presents, he shoulders — 

I wish that he 'd shoot me dead ! 

Heinrich Heine. (German.) 
'ranslation of Charles Godfrey Leland. 



THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH W T ITH US. 

The world is too much with us : late and soon, 

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers. 

Little we see in nature that is ours ; 

We- have given our hearts away — a sordid boon! 

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon, 

The winds that will be howling at all hours, 

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers — 

For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; 

It moves us not. — Great God ! I 'd rather be 

A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn ; 

So might 1, standing on this pleasant lea, 

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn — 

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, 

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 

William Wordsworth. 



TIT 553 



SONG. 

Pack, clouds, away ! and welcome, day ! 

With night we banish sorrow ; 
Sweet air, blow soft ! mount, lark, aloft ! 

To give my love good-morrow. 
Wings from the wind to please her mind, 

Notes from the lark I '11 borrow ; 
Bird, prune thy wing ! nightingale, sing ! 

To give my love good-morrow : 

To give my love good-morrow 

Notes from them all I '11 borrow. 

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast ! 

Sing, birds, in every furrow ! 
And from each hill let music shrill 

Give my fair love good-morrow. 
Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow : 
You pretty elves, among yourselves, 

Sins mv fair love good-morrow ! 

To give my love good-morrow 

Sing, birds, in every furrow ! 

Thomas Heywood. 



(54 



BOATMAN'S HYMN. 

Bark, that bears me through foam and squall, 

You in the storm are my castle-wall ! 

Though the sea should redden from bottom to top, 

From tiller to mast she takes no drop. 
On the tide top, the tide top — 
Wherry aroon, my land and store ! 
On the tide top, the tide top, 
She is the boat can sail galore ! 

She dresses herself, and goes gliding on, 
Like a dame in her robes of the Indian lawn ; 
For God has blessed her, gunnel and wale — 
And O ! if you saw her stretch out to the gale, 
On the tide top, the tide top — 
Wherry aroon, my land and store ! 
On the tide top, the tide top, 
She is the boat can sail galore ! 

Whillan ahoy! — Old heart of stone, 
Stooping so black o'er the beach alone, 
Answer me well : on the bursting brine 
Saw you ever a bark like mine, 

On the tide top, the tide top f 
Wherry aroon, my land and store ! 
On the tide top, the tide top, 
She is the boat can sail galore ! 

555 



BOATMAN'S HYMN. 

Says Whillan, Since first I was made of stone, 

I have looked abroad o'er the beach alone ; 

Bnt, till to-day, on the bursting brine, 

Saw I never a bark like thine! 

On the tide top, the tide top — 
Wherry aroon, my land and store ! 
On the tide top, the tide top, 
She is the boat can sail galore ! 




God of the air ! the seamen shout, 

When they see us tossing the brine about, 



55G 



NEARER TO THEE. 

Give us the shelter of strand or rock, 

Or through and through us she goes with a shock ! 

On the tide top, the tide top — 
Wherry aroon, my land and store ! 
On the tide top, the tide top, 
She is the boat can sail galore ! 

Anonymous. (Irish.) 
Translation of Samuel Ferguson. 



NEARER TO THEE. 

Nearer, my God, to Thee ! 

Nearer to Thee ! 
E'en though it be a cross 

That raise th me ; 
Still all my song shall be, 
Nearer, my God, to Thee ! 

Nearer to Thee ! 

Though, like a wanderer, 

The sun gone down, 

Darkness be over me, 
My rest a stone, 

Yet in my dreams I 'd be 

Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
Nearer to Thee ! 

There let the way appear 
Steps unto heaven ; 
557 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 

All that Thou sendest me 

In mercy given : 
Angels to beckon me 
Nearer, my God, to Thee, 

Nearer to Thee ! 

Then, with my waking thoughts 

Bright with Thy praise, 
Out of my stony griefs 

Bethel I '11 raise : 
So by my woes to be 
Nearer, my God, to Thee, 

Nearer to Thee ! 

Or if, on joyful wing 

Cleaving the sky, 
Sun, moon, and stars forgot, 

Upward I fly — 
Still all my song shall be, 
Nearer, my God, to Thee! 

Nearer to Thee ! 

Sarah Flower Adam: 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, 
The ringers ran by two, by three : 

" Pull ! if ye never pulled before ; 

Good ringers, pull your best ! " quoth hee. 

558 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 

" Play uppe, play uppe, Boston bells ! 
Ply all your changes, all your swells ! 

Play uppe ' The Brides of Enderby ! ' " 

Men say it was a stolen tyde — 

The Lord that sent it, He knows all ; 

But in myne ears doth still abide 
The message that the bells let fall ; 

And there was nought of strange, beside 

The flights of mews and peewits pied, 

By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. 

I sat and span within the doore ; 

My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes : 
The level sun, like ruddy ore, 

Lay sinking in the barren skies ; 
And, dark against day's golden death, 
She moved where Lindis wandereth — 
My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 

" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling, 
Ere the early dews were falling, 
Farre away I heard her song. 
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along; 
Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 

Flow T eth, floweth, 
From the meads where melick groweth, 
Faintly came her milking song. 

" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling, 
" For the dews will soone be falling ; 
5/>9 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIKE. 

Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow ! 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ! 
Come uppe, Whitefoot ! come uppe, Lightfoot ! 
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow ! 
Come uppe, Jetty ! rise aud follow : 
From the clovers lift your head ! 
Come uppe, Whitefoot ! come uppe, Lightfoot ! 
Come uppe, Jetty ! rise and follow, 
Jetty, to the milking shed ! " 

If it be long — ay, long ago — 

When I beginne to think howe long 

Againe I hear the Lindis flow, 

Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong ; 

And all the aire, it seemeth mee, 

Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), 

That ring the tune of Enderby. 

Alle fresh the level pasture lay, 

And not a shadowe mote be seene, 

Save where, full fyve good miles away, 
The steeple towered from out the green e. 

And lo ! the great bell farre and wide 

Was heard in all the country side, 

That Saturday at eventide. 

The swanherds, where their sedges are, 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath ; 
The shepherde-lads I heard afarre, 
560 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 

And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 
Till, floating o'er the grassy sea, 
Came downe that kyndl} r message free, 
" The Brides of Mavis Enderby." 

Then some looked uppe into the sky, 

And all along where Lindis flows 
To where the goodly vessels lie, 

And where the lordly steeple shows : 
They sayde, " And why should this thing be ? 
What danger lowers by land or sea, 
They ring the tune of Enderby ? 

" For evil news from Mablethorpe, 

Of pyrate galleys warping down — 
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, 

They have not spared to wake the towne ; 
But while the west bin red to see, 
And storms be none, and pyrates flee, 
Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby?'" 

I looked without, and lo ! my sonne 

Came riding downe with might and main ; 

He raised a shout as he drew on, 
Till all the welkin rang again : 

" Elizabeth ! Elizabeth ! " 

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 

" The olde sea-wall (he cryed) is downe ! 
uuu 561 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 

The rising tide comes on apace ; 
And boats, adrift in yonder towne, 

Go sailing uppe the market-place ! " 
He shook as one that looks on death : 
" God save you, mother ! " straight he sayth ; 
" Where is my wife, Elizabeth ? " 

" Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, 
With her two bairns I marked her long ; 

And ere yon bells beganne to play, 
Afar I heard her milking song." 

He looked across the grassy sea, 

To right, to left : " Ho, Enderby ! " 

They rang " The Brides of Enderby ! " 

With that he cried and beat his breast ; 

For lo ! along the river's bed 
A mighty eygre reared his crest, 

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with thunderous noises loud — 
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 

And rearing Lindis, backward pressed, 

Shook all her trembling bankes amaine ; 
Then madly at the eygre' s breast 

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout — 
Then beaten foam flew round about — 
Then all the mighty floods were out. 



562 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. 

So farre, so fast, the eygre drave, 

The heart had hardly time to beat 
Before a shallow seething wave 

Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet : 
The feet had hardly time to flee 
Before it brake against the knee — 
And all the world was in the sea ! 

Upon the roofe we sate that night ; 

The noise of bells went sweeping by ; 
I marked the lofty beacon-light 

Stream from the church tower, red and high — 
A lurid mark, and dread to see ; 
And awsome bells they were to mee, 
That in the dark rang " Enderby." 

They rang the sailor-lads to guide, 

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; 

And I — my sonne was at my side, 
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; 

And yet he moaned beneath his breath, 

" O come in life, or come in death ! 

O lost ! my love, Elizabeth." 

And didst thou visit him no more ? 

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare ! 
The waters laid thee at his doore 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear : 
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
Downe-drifted to thy dwelling-place ! 
563 



THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE 

That flow strewed- wrecks about the grass, 
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea — 

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 

To manye more than myne and mee ; 

But each will mourn his own (she sayth), 

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 

I shall never hear her more 

By the reedy Lindis shore, 

" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling, 

Ere the earlv dews be falling ; 

I shall never hear her song, 

"Cusha! Cusha!" all along, 

Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth, 
From the meads where melick groweth, 
When the water, winding down, 
Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see her more, 
Where the reeds and rushes quiver, 

Shiver, quiver, 
Stand beside the sobbing river — 
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling, 
To the sandy lonesome shore ; 
I shall never hear her calling, 
" Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 

Mellow, mellow ! 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ! 
Come uppe, Whitefoot ! come uppe, Lightfoot ! 
564 



COME, SLEEP, O SLEEP! 

Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow ! 
Come uppe, Lightfoot ! rise and follow, 

Lio'htfoot, Whitefoot : 
From your clovers lift the head ! 
Come uppe, Jetty ! follow, follow, 
Jetty, to the milking shed ! " 

Jean Ingelow. 



COME, SLEEP, O SLEEP! 

Come, Sleep, O Sleep ! the certain knot of peace, 

The baiting- place of wit, the balm of woe; 

The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release ; 

The indifferent judge between the high and low ! 

With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease 

Of those fierce darts despair doth at me throw. 

O ! make in me those civil wars to cease : 

I will good tribute pay if thou do so. 

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, 

A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, 

A rosy garland and a weary head ; 

And if these things, as being thine by right, 

Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, 

Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 

Sir Philip Sidney. 



565 



HOW SLEEP THE BKAVE. 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 
By all their country's wishes blest ! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallowed mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung ; 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; 
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 
And Freedom shall awhile repair, 
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there ! 

William Collins. 



SONG. 

The lark now leaves his watery nest, 

And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings 

He takes this window for the east, 

And, to implore your light, he sings. 

Awake ! awake ! — the Morn will never rise 

Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. 
566 



JO IDEJE LEMENT A NAP. 

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, 

The ploughman from the sun his season takes ; 

But still the lover wonders what they are 

Who look for day before his mistress wakes. 

Awake, awake ! — break through your veils of lawn ! 

Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn. 

Sir Wiliiam Davenant. 



JO IDEJE LEMENT A NAP. 

All the earth is wrapped in shadows, 

And the dews have drenched the meadows, 

And the moon has ta'en her station, 

And the midnight rules creation. 

Where is my beloved staying ? 

In her chamber, kneeling, praying. 

Is she praying for her lover ? 

Then her heart is flowing over. 

My beloved ! is she keeping 

Watch, or is she sweetly sleeping ? 

If she dream, her dreams are surely 

Of the one she loves so purely. 

If she sleep not, if she pray not, 

If to listening ear she say naught — 

Thought with thought in silence linking, 

O, I know of whom she 's thinking ! 

Think, O think of me, sweet angel, 

Rose of life, and love's evangel ! 

567 



THE SABBATH MOKNTOG. 

All the thoughts that melt or move thee 

Are like stars that shine above thee ; 

And while shining, to the centre 

Of thy spirit's spirit enter, 

And there light a flame supernal — 

Like eternal love, eternal. 

Alexander Petofi. (Hungarian.) 



Translation of Sir John Bowring. 



THE SABBATH MORNING. 

With silent awe I hail the sacred morn, 
That slowly wakes while all the fields are still. 
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne ; 
A graver murmur gurgles from the rill, 
And Echo answers softer from the hill, 
And softer sings the linnet from the thorn ; 
The sky-lark warbles in a tone less shrill. 
Hail, light serene ! hail, sacred Sabbath morn ! 
The rooks float silent by, in airy drove ; 
The sky a placid yellow lustre throws ; 
The gales, that lately sighed along the grove, 
Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose ; 
The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move : 
So soft the day when the first morn arose. 

John Leyden. 



568 



THE SABBATH. 

Fresh glides the brook, and blows the gale, 
Yet yonder halts the quiet mill ! 

The whirring wheel, the rushing sail, 
How motionless and still ! 

Six days of toil, poor child of Cain, 

Thy strength the slave of want may be ; 

The seventh thy limbs escape the chain — 
A God hath made thee free ! 

Ah ! tender was the law that gave 

This holy respite to the breast — 

To breathe the gale, to watch the wave, 
And know the wheel may rest ! 

But where the waves the gentlest glide 

What image charms, to lift thine eyes ? 

The spire reflected on the tide 
Invites thee to the skies. 

To teach the soul its nobler worth 

This rest from mortal toils is given : 

Go, snatch the brief reprieve from earth, 
And pass — a guest to heaven ! 
5fi9 



THE PRIEST. 

They tell thee, in their dreaming school, 

Of power from old dominion hurled, 

When rich and poor, with juster rale, 
Shall share the altered world. 

Alas ! since time itself began, 

That fable hath but fooled the hour ; 
Each age that ripens power in man 

But subjects man to power. 

Yet every day in seven, at least, 

One bright republic shall be known : 

Man's world awhile hath surely ceased 
When God proclaims His own ! 

Six days may rank divide the poor, 

O Dives, from thy banquet-hall ! 
The seventh the Father opes the door, 

And holds His feast for all ! 

Edward Bulwer Lytt 



THE PRIEST. 

I would I were an excellent divine, 

That had the Bible at my fingers' ends ; 

That men might hear, out of this mouth of mine 
How God doth make His enemies His friends 

Rather than with a thundering and long prayer 

Be led into presumption or despair. 

570 



THE PRIEST. 

This would I be, and would none other be 

But a religious servant of my God ; 
And know there is none other God but He, 

And willingly to suffer mercy's rod — 
Joy in His grace, and live but in His love, 
And seek my bliss but in the world above. 

And I would frame a kind of faithful prayer 
For all estates within the state of grace, 

That careful love might never know despair, 
Nor servile fear might faithful love deface ; 

And this would I both day and night devise 

To make my humble spirit's exercise. 

And 1 would read the rules of sacred life : 

Persuade the troubled soul to patience ; 
The husband care, and comfort to the wife ; 

To child and servant due obedience ; 
Faith to the friend, and to the neighbor peace — 
That love might live, and quarrels all might cease : 

Prayer for the health of all that are diseased, 

Confession unto all that are convicted, 
And patience unto all that are displeased, 

And comfort unto all that are afHicted, 
And mercy unto all that have offended, 
And grace to all — that all may be amended. 

Nicholas Brktox. 



571 



THE MAKING OF MAN. 

Before the beginning of years 

There came to the making of man, 
Time, with a gift of tears ; 

Grief, with a glass that ran ; 
Pleasure, with pain for leaven ; 

Summer, with flowers that fell ; 
Remembrance, fallen from heaven, 

And madness, risen from hell ; 
Strength, without hands to smite ; 

Love, that endures for a breath ; 
Night, the shadow of light, 

And life, the shadow of death. 

And the high gods took in hand 

Fire, and the falling of tears, 
And a measure of sliding sand 

From under the feet of the years ; 
And froth and drift of the sea ; 

And dust of the laboring earth ; 
And bodies of things to be 

In the houses of death and of birth ; 
And wrought with weeping and laughter, 

And fashioned with loathing and love, 
With life before and after 

And death beneath and above, 
572 



THE MAKING OF MAN. 

For a clay and a night and a morrow, 

That his strength might endure for a span, 

With travail and heavy sorrow, 
The holy spirit of man. 

From the winds of the north and the south 

They gathered as unto strife ; 
They breathed upon his mouth, 

They filled his body with life ; 
Eyesight and speech they wrought 

For the veils of the soul therein, 
A time for labor and thought, 

A time to serve and to sin ; 
They gave him light in his ways, 

And love, and a space for delight, 
And beauty, and length of days, 

And night, and sleep in the night. 
His speech is a burning fire ; 

With his lips he travaileth ; 
In his heart is a blind desire, 

In his eyes foreknowledge of death ; 
He w 7 eaves, and is clothed with derision; 

Sows, and he shall not reap ; 
His life is a watch or a vision 

Betw T een a sleep and a sleep. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



573 




SEVEN TIMES ONE. 



There 's no dew left on the daisies and clover. 
There 's no rain left in heaven. 

T 've said my "Seven times" over and over — 
Seven times one are seven. 

5 74 



SEVEN TIMES ONE. 

I am old — so old I can write a letter ; 

My birthday lessons are done. 
The lambs play always — they know no better ; 

They are only one times one. 

Moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing 

And shining; so round and low. 
You were bright — ah, bright! — but your light is failing 
You are nothing now but a bow. 

You Moon, have you done something wrong in heaven, 
That God has hidden your face ? 

1 hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven, 

And shine again in your place. 

O velvet Bee ! you 're a dusty fellow — 

You 've powdered your legs with gold. 

O brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow, 
Give me your money to hold ! 

O columbine ! open your folded wrapper, 

Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! 

cuckoo-pint ! toll me the purple clapper 

That hangs in your clear green bell ! 

And show me your nest, with the young ones in it — 
I will not steal them away : 

1 am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet ! 

I am seven times one to-day. 

J KAN INGELOW. 



AH, CHLORIS! 

Ah, Chloris ! that I now could sit 
As unconcerned as when 

Your infant beauty could beget 
No pleasure nor no pain ! 

When I the dawn used to admire, 
And praised the coming day, 

I little thought the growing fire 
Must take my rest away. 

Your charms in harmless childhood lay, 
Like metals in the mine : 

Age from no face took more away 

Than youth concealed in thine. 

But as your charms, insensibly, 
To their perfection prest, 

Fond love as unperceived did fly, 
And in my bosom rest. 

My passion with your beauty grew ; 

And Cupid, at my heart, 
Still, as his mother favored you, 

Threw a new flaming dart. 
576 



SIXTEEN. 

Each gloried in their wanton part : 

To make a lover, he 
Employed the utmost of his art ; 

To make a beauty, she. 

Though now I slowlv bend to love, 

Uncertain of my fate, 
If your fair self my chains approve 

I shall my freedom hate. 

Lovers, like dying men, may well 

At first disordered be — 
Since none alive can truly tell 

What fortune they must see. 

Sir Charles Sedley. 



SIXTEEN. 



In Clementina's artless mien 

Lucilla asks me what I see — 
And are the roses of sixteen 
Enough for me ? 

Lucilla asks, if that be all 

Have I not culled as sweet before ? 
Ah yes, Lucilla ! and their fall 
I still deplore. 

I now behold another scene, 

Where pleasure beams with heaven's own light 
www 577 



IN VAIN YOU TELL. 

More pure, more constant, more serene, 
And not less bright : 

Faith, on whose breast the loves repose, 

Whose chain of flowers no force can sever, 
And Modesty, who, when she goes, 



Is gone forever. 



Walter Savage Landor. 



IN VAIN YOU TELL. 

In vain you tell your parting lover 
You wish fair winds may waft him over : 
Alas ! what winds can happy prove 
That bear me far from what I love ? — 
Can equal those that I sustain 
From slighted vows and cold disdain ? 

Be gentle, and in pity choose 

To wish the wildest tempests loose, 

That, thrown again upon the coast 

Where first my shipwrecked heart was lost, 

I may once more repeat my pain — 

Once more in dying notes complain 

Of slighted vows and cold disdain. 

Matthew Prior. 



57, 



THE LOVER TO THE GLOW-WORMS. 

Ye living lamps, by whose dear light 

The nigh tin-gale does sit so late, 
And, studying all the summer night, 

Her matchless songs does meditate ! 

Ye country comets, that portend 

No war, nor prince's funeral — 
Shining unto no other end 

Than to presage the grass's fall ! 

Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame 
To wandering mowers shows the way, 

That in the night have lost their aim 
And after foolish fires do stray ! 

Your courteous lights in vain you waste, 

Since Juliana here is come ; 
For she my mind hath so displaced, 

That I shall never find my home. 

Andrew Marvell 



THE WEE GREEN NEUK. 

O the wee green nenk, the sly green neuk, 

The wee sly nenk for me ! 
Whare the wheat is wavin' bright and brown, 

And the wind is fresh and free ; 
579 



THE WEE GREEN NEUK. 

Whare I weave wild weeds, and out o' reeds 

Kerve whissles as I lay, 
And a douce low voice is murmurin' by, 

Through the lee-lang simmer day ! 

And whare a' things luik as though they lo'ed 

To languish in the sun, 
And that if they feed the fire they dree 

They wadna ae pang were gone ; 
Whare the lift aboon is still as death, 

And bright as life can be ; 
While the douce low voice says Na, na, na ! 

But ye mauna luik sae at me ! 

Whare the lang rank bent is saft and cule, 

And freshenin' till the feet ; 
And the spot is sly, and the spinnie high, 

Whare, my luve and I mak seat; 
And I tease her till she rins, and then 

I catch her roun' the tree, 
While the poppies shak' their heids and blush : 

Let 'em blush till they drap, for me ! 

the wee green neuk, the sly green neuk, 

The wee sly neuk for me ! 
Whare the wheat is wavirC bright and brown, 

And the wind is fresh and free ! 

Philip James Bailky. 



580 



WHEN I COME HOME. 

Around me Life's hell of fierce ardors burns, 

When I come home, when I come home; 
Over me Heaven with her starry heart yearns, 

When I come home, when I come home. 
For the feast of God garnished, the palace of Night 
At a thousand star-windows is throbbing with light. 
London makes mirth ; but I know God hears 
The sobs in the dark, and the dropping of tears ; 
For I feel that He listens down Night's great dome, 
When I come home, when I come home: 
Home, home, when I come home — 
Far i' the night, when I come home ! 

I walk under Night's triumphal arch, 

When I come home, when I come home, 
Exulting with life like a conqueror's march, 

When I come home, when I come home. 
I pass by the rich-chambered mansions that shine, 
Overflowing with splendor like goblets with wine : 
I have fought, I have vanquished, the dragon of toil, 
And before me my golden Hesperides smile ; 
And O, but Love's flowers make rich the gloom, 
When I come home, when I come home ! 
Home, home, when I come home — 
Far i' the night, when I come home ! 
581 



WHEN I COME HOME. 

O, the sweet, merry mouths upturned to be kist, 
When I come home, when I come home ! 
How the younglings yearn from the hungry nest, 
When I come home, when I come home ! 
My weary, worn heart into sweetness is stirred, 
And it dances and sings like a singing bird 
On the branch nighest heaven — a-top of my life — 
As I clasp thee, my winsome, wooing Wife ! 
And thy pale cheek with rich, tender passion doth bloom 
When I come home, when I come home : 
Home, home, when I come home — 
Far i' the night, when I come home ! 

Clouds fall off the shining face of my life, 

When I come home, when I come home, 
And leave heaven bare on thy bosom, sweet Wife, 

When I come home, when I come home ! 
With her smiling energies, Faith warm and bright, 
With love glorv-crowned and serenely alight — 
With her womanly beauty and queenly calm — 
She steals to my heart with her blessing of balm ; 
And O, but the wine of love sparkles with foam 
When I come home, when I come home ! 
Home, home, wdien I come home : 
Far i' the night, when I come home ! 

Gerald Massey. 



582 




CALM IS THE NIGHT. 

Calm is the night, and the city is sleeping. 

Once in this house dwelt a lady fair ; 
Long, long ago, she left it, weeping — 

But still the old house is standing there. 



Yonder a man at the heavens is staring, 
Wringing his hands as in sorrowful case 
583 



IF I DESIRE WITH PLEASANT SONGS. 

He turns to the moonlight, his countenance baring — 
O Heaven ! he shows me my own sad face ! 

Shadowy form, with my own agreeing ! 

Why mockest thou thus, in the moonlight cold, 
The sorrows which here once vexed my being, 
Many a night in the days of old ? 

Heinrich Heine. (German.) 
Translation of Charles Godfrey Leland. 



IF I DESIRE WITH PLEASANT SONGS. 

If I desire with pleasant songs 
To throw a merry hour away, 

Comes Love unto me, and my wrongs 
In careful tale he doth display, 

And asks me how I stand for singing 

While I my helpless hands am wringing. 



And then another time, if I 

A noon in shady bower would pass, 
Comes he with stealthy gesture sly, 

And flinging down upon the grass, 
Quoth he to me : My master dear, 
Think of this noontide such a year ! 

And if elsewhile I lay my head 
On pillow, with intent to sleep, 
584 



THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY. 

Lies Love beside me on the bed, 

And gives me ancient words to keep ; 
Says he : These looks, these tokens, number — 
May be, they '11 help you to a slumber ! 

So every time when I would yield 

An hour to quiet, comes he still, 
And hunts up every sign concealed, 

And every outward sign of ill ; 
And gives me his sad face's pleasures 
For merriment's, or sleep's, or leisure's. 

Thomas Burbidge. 



THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY. 

Could we but know 
The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel, 

Where lie those happier hills, and meadows low - 
Ah ! if beyond the spirit's inmost cavil 

Aught of that country could we surely know — 
Who would not go ? 

Might we but hear 
The hovering angels' high imagined chorus, 

Or catch betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear, 
One radiant vista of the realm before us, 

With one rapt moment given to see and hear — 
Ah ! who would fear ? 
xxx 585 



THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 

Were we quite sure 
To find the peerless friend who left us lonely ; 

Or there, by some celestial stream as pure, 
To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit only — 
This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure, 
Who would endure ? 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 



THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 

'T was a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, 

Tall and slender, and sallow and dry; 
His form was bent, and his gait was slow, 
His long, thin hair was as white as snow, 

But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye ; 
And he sang every night as he went to bed, 

" Let us be happy down here below ; 
The living should live, though the dead be dead," 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He taught his scholars the rule of three, 

Writing, and reading, and history, too ; 
He took the little ones up on his knee, 
For a kind old heart in his breast had he, 

And the wants of the littlest child he knew : 
" Learn while you 're young," he often said, 

" There is much to enjoy, down here below ; 
Life for the living, and rest for the dead ! " 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
586 



THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 

With the stupidest boys lie was kind and cool, 

Speaking only in gentlest tones ; 
The rod was hardly known in his school . . . 
Whipping, to him, was a barbarous rule, 

And too hard work for his poor old bones ; 
Beside, it was painful, he sometimes said : 

" We should make life pleasant, down here below 
The living need charity more than the dead," 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane, 

With roses and woodbine over the door ; 
His rooms were quiet, and neat, and plain, 
But a spirit of comfort there held reign, 

And made him forget he was old and poor ; 
"I need so little," he often said ; 

" And my friends and relatives here below 
Won't litigate over me when I am dead," 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

But the pleasantest times that he had, of all, 

Were the sociable hours he used to pass, 
With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's wall, 
Making an unceremonious call, 

Over a pipe and a friendly glass : 
This was the finest pleasure, he said, 

Of the many he tasted, here below ; 
" Who has no cronies, had better be dead ! " 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 



587 



THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 

Then the jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face 

Melted all over in sunshiny smiles ; 
He stirred his glass with an old-school grace, 
Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace, 

Till the house grew merry, from cellar to tiles : 
" I 'm a pretty old man," he gently said, 

" I have lingered a long while, here below ; 
But my heart is fresh, if my youth is fled ! " 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He smoked his pipe in the balmy air, 

Every night when the sun went down, 
While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, 
Leaving his tenderest kisses there, 

On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown : 
And, feeling the kisses, he smiled, and said, 

'T was a glorious world, down here below ; 
" Why wait for happiness till we are dead ? " 

Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 

He sat at his door, one midsummer night, 

After the sun had sunk in the west, 
And the lingering beams of golden light 
Made his kindly old face look warm and bright, 

While the odorous night- wind whispered, " Rest ! " 
Gently, gently, he bowed his head . . . 

There were angels waiting for him, I know ; 
He was sure of happiness, living or dead, 

This jolly old pedagogue, long ago ! 

George Arnold. 

588 



BESIDE THE SEA. 

I. 

They walked beside the Summer sea, 

And watched the slowly dying sun ; 
And " O," she said, " come back to me ! 

My love, my own, my only one ! " 
But while he kissed her fears away 

The gentle waters kissed the shore, 
And, sadly whispering, seemed to say 

" He '11 come no more ! he '11 come no more ! " 

II. 

Alone beside the Autumn sea 

She watched the sombre death of day ; 
And " O," she said, " remember me ! 

And love me, darling, far away!" 
A cold wind swept the watery gloom, 

And, darkly whispering on the shore, 
Sighed out the secret of his doom, — 

" He '11 come no more! he'll come no more! " 

in. 
In peace beside the Winter sea 

A white grave glimmers in the moon ; 
And waves are fresh, and clouds are free, 

And shrill winds pipe a careless tune. 
One sleeps beneath the dark blue wave, 

And one upon the lonely shore ; 
But joined in love, beyond the grave, 
They part no more ! they part no more ! 

William Winter. 
589 



CAUGHT! 

Birds are singing round my window, 

Tunes the sweetest ever heard, 
And I hang my cage there daily, 

But I never catch a bird. 

So with thoughts my brain is peopled, 
And they sing there all day long ; 

But they will not fold their pinions 
In the little cage of song ! 

Richard Henry Stoddard. 



A DEDICATION. 

The sea gives her shells to the shingle, 

The earth gives her streams to the sea ; 
They are many, but my gift is single — 

My verses, the first-fruits of me. 
Let the wind take the green and the gray leaf, 

Cast forth without fruit upon air — 
Take rose-leaf and vine-leaf and bay-leaf, 

Blown loose from the hair. 

The night shakes them round me in legions, 
Dawn drives them before her like dreams ; 

Time sheds them like snows on strange regions, 
Swept shoreward on infinite streams : 
590 



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A DEDICATION. 

Leaves pallid and sombre and ruddy, 
Dead fruits of the fugitive years — 

Some stained as with wine and made bloody, 
And some as with tears ; 

Some scattered in seven years' traces, 

As they fell from the boy that was then — 
Long left among idle green places, 

Or gathered but now among men : 
On seas full of wonder and peril, 

Blown white round the capes of the north ; 
Or in islands where myrtles are sterile, 

And loves bring not forth. 

O daughters of dreams, and of stories 

That life is not wearied of yet, 
Faustine, Fragoletta, Dolores, 

Felise and Yolande and Juliette ! 
Shall I find you not still, shall I miss you, 

When sleep, that is true or that seems, 
Comes back to me, hopeless to kiss you, 

O daughters of dreams ? 

They are past as a slumber that passes, 

As the dew of a dawn of old time — 
More frail than the shadows on glasses, 

More fleet than a wave or a rhyme. 
As the waves after ebb drawing seaward, 

When their hollows are full of the night, 
So the birds that flew singing to me-ward 

Recede out of sight : 

591 



A DEDICATION. 

The songs of dead seasons, that wander 

On wings of articulate words — 
Lost leaves, that the shore-wind may squander — 

Light flocks of untamable birds ; 
Some sang to me — dreaming in class- time, 

And truant in hand as in tongue ; 
For the youngest were born of boy's pastime, 

The eldest are young. 

Is there shelter while life in them lingers, 

Is there hearing for songs that recede ? — 
Tunes touched from a harp with man's fingers, 

Or blown with boy's mouth in a reed ? 
Is there place in the land of your labor ? 

Is there room in your world of delight, 
Where change has not sorrow for neighbor, 

And day has not night? 

In their wings though the sea-wind yet quivers, 

Will you spare not a space for them there, 
Made green with the running of rivers 

And gracious with temperate air ? — 
In the fields and the turreted cities, 

That cover from sunshine and rain 
Fair passions and bountiful pities 

And loves without stain ? 

In a land of clear colors and stories, 

In a region of shadowless hours, 
Where earth has a garment of glories 

And a murmur of musical flowers — 

592 



A DEDICATION. 

In woods where the spring half uncovers 

The flush of her amorous face, 
By the waters that listen for lovers — 

For these is there place ? 

For the song-birds of sorrow, that muffle 

Their music as clouds do their fire ? 
For the storm-birds of passion, that ruffle 

Wild wings in a wind of desire ? 
In the stream of the storm as it settles 

Blown seaward, borne far from the sun — 
Shaken loose on the darkness, like petals 

Dropt one after one ? 

Though the world of your hands be more gracious 

And lovelier, in lordship of tilings 
Clothed round by sweet Art with the spacious 

Warm heaven of her imminent wings, 
Let them enter, unfledged and nigh fainting, 

For the love "of old loves and lost times ; 
And receive in your palace of painting 

This revel of rhymes. 

Though the seasons of man, full of losses, 

Make empty the years full of youth, 
If but one thing be constant in crosses, 

Change lays not her hand upon truth ; 
Hopes die, and their tombs are for token 

That the grief, as the joy of them, ends 
Ere Time, that breaks all men, has broken 

The faith between friends. 
593 



THE LAST POET. 

Though the many lights dwindle to one light, 

There is help if the heaven has one ; 
Though the skies be discrowned of the sunlight, 

And the earth dispossessed of the sun, 
They have moonlight and sleep for repayment, 

When, refreshed as a bride and set free, 
With stars and sea-w r inds in her raiment, 

Night sinks on the sea. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



THE LAST POET. 

" When will your bards be weary 
Of rhyming on ? How long 

Ere it is sung and ended, 
The old, eternal song? 

" Is it not long since empty, 
The horn of fall supply ? 

And all the posies gathered, 
And all the fountains dry ? " 

As lono; as the sun's chariot 
Yet keeps its azure track, 

And but one human visage 

Gives answering glances back ; 
594 



THE LAST POET. 

As long as skies shall nourish 
The thunderbolt and gale, 

And, frightened at their fury, 
One throbbing heart shall quail ; 

As long as after tempests 

Shall spring one showery bow, 

One breast with peaceful promise 
And reconcilement glow ; 

As long as night the concave 
Sows with its starry seed, 

And but one man those letters 
Of golden writ can read ; 

Long as a moonbeam glimmers, 

Or bosom sighs a vow ; 
Long as the wood-leaves rustle 

To cool a weary brow ; 

As long as roses blossom, 
And earth is green in May ; 

As long as eyes shall sparkle 
And smile in pleasure's ray ; 

As long as cypress shadows 

The graves more mournful make, 

Or one cheek's wet with weeping, 
Or one poor heart can break : 
595 



THE LAST POET. 

So long on earth shall wander 

The goddess Poesy ; 
And, with her, one exulting 

Her votarist to be. 

And singing on, triumphing, 

The old earth-mansion through, 
Out marches the last minstrel ! ' 

Pie is the last man too. 

The Lord holds the creation 

Forth in his hand meanwhile. 
Like a fresh flower just opened, 

And views it with a smile. 

When once this Flower Giant 

Begins to show decay, 
And earths and suns are flying 

Like blossom-dust away, 

Then ask — if of the question 

Not weary yet — " How long 
Ere it is sung and ended, 
The old, eternal song ? " 

Anton Alexander von Auersperg. (German.) 
Translation of Nathaniel Langdon Frothingham. 



T HE END. 



596 






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